Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

But, frowning for effect, he was thinking of Indru. He was impatient to see her, and because he had not heard from her, he knew he would have to go looking for her. He couldn’t marry her. He fantasized adopting her. This is my daughter. Could he get away with it? Give her piano lessons, find her a tutor, get her some grooming, teach her French, move to Sudbury and buy her a pony.

After the meeting, alone with Shah in the boardroom, he said, “I’m wiped out. I can’t face this fundraiser.”

“Gala dinner and dance for charity,” Shah said.

“Whatever.”

“It is necessary.”

This finicky urgency, this tenacity, set Shah apart—perhaps set Indians apart. It was another aspect of the obsession with detail. Dwight had arrived at two A.M., he’d hardly slept, the meetings had gone on all day; now it was almost six in the evening and Shah was insisting on this further event.

“Give me a reason.”

Shah said, “Reason is that sociability is highly prized by Mumbai people. You will be noticed. You will get big points for attending. And Oberoi is important venue.”

Dwight was shaking his head.

Shah said, “And major client will be there, software developer Gopinathan. You must meet him in a social setting in the first instance. It is critical. We are seated at his table.”

“What’s the dress code?”

“Suits for gents.”

But half the men at the gala wore black tie. In the hotel lobby a large placard propped on an easel said, Shrinaji Gala Dinner Dance to Aid Women in Crisis. Glamorous couples chatted in the busy ballroom, where tables had been elaborately set, three wine glasses at each place. Dwight noticed that many of the beautiful women were being escorted by their much shorter, much older, much fatter husbands. It was a genial and noisy crowd, people loudly greeting each other, some with namastes , some with kisses.

Wine was being served by waiters in white suits and red turbans. A tray of filled champagne flutes was offered to Shah.

“I do not take,” Shah said.

Another waiter slid a platter of hors d’oeuvres toward Shah.

“I do not take.”

A gong was rung; no one paid any attention. But after it was rung three or four more times, the guests drifted to their assigned tables.

“Mr. Gopinathan, I have the pleasure to introduce you to my colleague …”

Before Shah could mispronounce his name, Dwight said, “Dwight Huntsinger. And I want you to know that although I arrived at two this morning and put in a whole day’s work, I would not have missed this for anything.”

“Good cause,” Mr. Gopinathan said. “Women in crisis. Battered, abused, that sort of thing.”

“And meeting you,” Dwight said. “I am looking forward to learning from you.”

“You are too kind,” Mr. Gopinathan said. “Please be seated.”

Dwight sat next to Mr. Gopinathan’s wife, whose stoutness made her seem friendlier, easier company than the woman on his other side, a golden-skinned beauty in a bottle-green sari. During the meal he concentrated on Mrs. Gopinathan.

“I am cochair of the charity,” she said. “It is a heavy burden.”

“You’re doing good work,” Dwight said. He wondered if his weariness was making him slur his words.

“And it is not just women. It is young girls—schoolgirls abducted and abused. You cannot believe. Treated like property. And the health issues!”

He was glad for the woman’s volubility. After he had listened to two courses of this, he turned to the woman on his right, the beauty, and said, “Tell me your story.”

“Perhaps when we have more time,” she said, and because she had said it coquettishly, Dwight looked past her, expecting to see her husband, but only saw Shah, spooning orange paste from a small bowl.

“It is choley,” Shah said, startled in his eating.

“Have you lodged any bids in the silent auction?” the woman asked.

“No, but I’d like to lodge some,” Dwight said. “Maybe you can advise me.”

Glad for any excuse to leave the table, and wishing to stretch his legs—his fatigue was beginning to tell—he excused himself and went with the woman to the foyer, where auction items were set out on long tables, each item with a numbered pad next to it showing the bidders’ names.

“These are exquisite,” the woman said, lifting up a velvet-covered box on which a pair of hoop earrings lay on a satin cushion.

When a woman said “exquisite” like that, it meant “I want them.”

“I don’t know much about this stuff,” Dwight said, to see her reaction.

“It’s South Indian style,” the woman said. “Perhaps something for your wife.”

She was sharp-faced, her green eyes set off by her honey-colored skin. She wore a necklace like a draping of golden chainmail, and her green sari was edged with gold highlights. She was the loveliest woman Dwight had seen in India.

“If I had a wife,” Dwight said. “Which I don’t.”

“Pity. Any woman would love to have that piece.”

On the pad next to it was its number and a list of names, the last one showing a bid of twenty-two thousand rupees.

“How much is that in real money?”

“In dollars, about”—the woman pursed her lips and swallowed hard, looking more beautiful in this moment of concentration and greed—“six hundred. Even twice that would be a bargain.”

“So I’ll improve on it.” Dwight added five thousand rupees to the bid, and as he was signing his name, a woman passed by, waited for him to finish, and lifted the pad.

“Bidding is closed,” she called to the room.

“You’re in luck,” the lovely woman said. “You’re the last bidder, so you’ll get the earrings.” She smiled at him. “What will you do with them?”

He leaned toward her and said softly, “Maybe you can help me decide.”

“It would be my great pleasure.” Saying this, she drew a small card from the silk purse at her wrist and slipped it into his hand. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “My mobile number is on it.”

“Thanks.”

The woman was still talking. “It would be better if we did not leave together. The dinner is over in any case. Call me in thirty minutes and I will give you directions.” She turned to go, then remembered something else. “You can pay for that at the table over there, where a queue is forming.”

Shah saw him in the payment line. He said, “Ah, you succeeded in a bid. What did you win?”

“Just a bauble.”

“You succeeded with Gopinathan, too. His wife said you are a great listener.”

It had been his weariness, his inertia, yet now he felt wired, hy-per alert, as though drugged. He wondered if it was the woman who had wakened him.

“Want a lift?”

“I’ll get a taxi.”

All day he had thought of Indru. At the dinner, especially seeing the expensive food and wine, he had tried to imagine what Indru might be eating at that moment. And having stayed up so late, he thought perhaps he’d stroll past the Gateway of India, just to see whether she might be out strolling herself.

But instead here he was in a corner of the Oberoi lobby, looking at the name on the woman’s card—it was Surekha Shankar Vellore—and dialing the number on his cell phone.

“Hello.”

“Is that Miss Vellore.”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Still in the lobby.”

“Step outside. Have the doorman hail a taxi. Show the card to the driver and he will take you to my address. It’s not far.”

Blind to the progress of the taxi, Dwight had looked out the window hoping for a glimpse of the Gateway of India. He saw nothing. Yet he felt unfaithful—where was he going, and why? The last part of the brief taxi ride was a steep hill lined with tall whitish apartment blocks.