Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

“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 be came 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.