Paul Theroux - The Elephanta Suite - Three Novellas

“In what way not easy?”

“It is contraband item.”

“I had thought of looking in the town. I didn’t even know there was a town!”

“Hanuman Nagar. Not available. Not hygienic.”

“But there’s the monkey temple?”

“Shrine, yes, but not temple. Disputed temple, so to say.”

“I’m sure it’s interesting,” Beth said, because the woman was agitated, as some Indians at Agni seemed to be when they were flatly contradicted, or even questioned.

“There is such confusion, madam, such hullabaloo,” the woman said, widening her eyes, swishing the drape of her sari over her shoulder. “Please, you desire shatoosh shawl, we will obtain full range for you with discretion.”

Beth was given a locker key at the spa. She changed into a robe, and when she went upstairs she was met by a young girl in a white uniform, in a posture of greeting, hands clasped, head bowed. “Namaskar. I am Prithi.”

On the way to the massage suite, Prithi complimented Beth on her lovely bag (“It is smart, madam”) and on her clear skin. Beth thanked her but thought, Why not? I take care of myself. I eat right. I exercise. I’m only fifty. She was really fifty-three, but what was the difference? Her big birthday was far off and unthinkable.

Prithi sat her down and washed her feet and said, “We believe that guests come from God,” and with the solemnity of this ritual, with the antiphonal music playing on a plant stand, the warm water on her feet, and Prithi’s gentle hands, Beth was on the verge of tears.

She found she could not speak—her throat ached with emotion. Prithi helped her onto the table and lifted the large towel, and Beth slipped off her robe and lay down as the towel was tucked around her.

“Thai massage, mam.”

“Yes,” Beth murmured into the cushion under her face.

She was tugged, first her shoulders and back, her legs pushed and pulled, Prithi’s elbows and palms working her muscles, stretching her arms, tucking them behind her and applying pressure to them.

And at each touch Beth was reminded of her strength, the legs that were toned from tennis, the limber calves and ankles, as her heels were pressed into her buttocks, the buttocks themselves trim from her exercise. Even her hands responded when they were manipulated—she was proud of the strength in her fingers and wrists.

Each part of her body proved its elasticity in the massage; the physicality of the treatment was like an acknowledgment that she was fully alive. And something else—that no man apart from Audie had ever seen her like this. How odd that an Indian girl, hardly twenty, was caressing her this way. But the rhythm of the massage, the moving hands, the sense of blood being expressed through her muscle bundles, induced in her a dream state of being embraced and warmed by another body. She did not mind that the other person was a woman—was in fact reassured to know that only another woman would understand.

Yet in this dream state at the edge of reverie she made Prithi a man, made those massage movements into caresses, the breathing of the young girl into a man’s endearments. It worked. She was aroused, as though enclosed in the intimacy of a private bower in which she was exhausting herself in the throes of a passionate embrace.

The music helped too; she felt it resonating within her, the vibrating fibers of the Indian strings clutching at her vitals. Even the massage oil had an aroma of sensuality, not a perfume but a musky heaviness that soaked her body and soothed it. Every bit of her body was awakened, sweetened by the pain of the massage, the attentive fingers, and before she knew it—before she was ready—it was over.

“Here is some water, mam. I will await you outside. Take your time, mam.”

Audie was peering into the fish pond outside the dining room lobby, seeming to stare at the white and orange koi thrashing back and forth, darting, gulping at bubbles; but he was only killing time, looking sideways at Anna, who had changed into her restaurant uniform, the cream and gold sari. And where was Beth?

“Good treatment, sir?” Anna said, creeping behind him.

“The best,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

He turned to size her up, wondering if she knew that she sounded like a coquette, looking for a nuance on her lips, a lingering light in her eyes, the posture as well, the signs of Take me.

“They are lucky fish,” Anna said. He was sometimes unable to understand what she said, yet she made this assertion briskly. Indians could sound so confident even in their mispronunciations.

“Lucky in what way?”

“One Japanese guest tell me so, sir. Lucky fish.”

The fish were fat, their fins like wings, their big purse-like mouths gasping.

“Jesus Christ is a fish, sir.”

Audie dipped his head sideways, as he did when he heard something unexpected.

“The sign of fish is in all church, sir. Is a symbol, you can say, sir.”

Do I know this? Audie wondered, yet he was muddled pondering the odd fact, distracted by Anna’s doll-like face, her clear skin, her slightly slanted eyes in puffy sockets, her pulled-back hair, her small sticking-out ears, her fleshy lips. She was lovely, and although she was still talking about Jesus the fish, Audie was fascinated. He could take her so easily into his arms, could scoop her up and possess her.

His mind raced ahead, imagining Anna saying, But what about my mother?

I will buy her a house.

What about my brother’s schooling?

He can live with us. I’ll send him to school. And: You are the prettiest thing I’ve seen in India.

“In the Greek language, ‘fish’ means Jesus,” Anna said. “And it was a secret word, sir. Even in my church, sir, fish picture on the wall.”

He was baffled and fascinated by the certainty of the Indian doll lecturing him on Jesus the fish symbol, but only half listening to this talk, hardly following it, while devouring her with his eyes.

“Is that on the menu?” Beth said, stepping through the door, seeing her husband and the employee at the rail of the fish pond.

Audie was not embarrassed by his reverie of possessing Anna. He was pleased with himself. He was someone who seldom craved anything. He’d had everything he ever wanted, he was content, he could not imagine wanting more. And here he was, experiencing desire—a rare emotion for him these days.

Anna stepped back and became formal, deferring to a superior in the Indian way, as Dr. Nagaraj approached and greeted them.

“We were discussing the fish,” Audie said.

“Ah, yes. Fish.” He said peesh , making it sound inedible.

“The Christian symbolism. Jesus is represented as a fish.”

Dr. Nagaraj waggled his head. He was saying yes, but didn’t have a clue.

Anna, self-conscious, perhaps suspecting that she would be referred to as the bringer of this news, sidled back to the table of menus and the brass dish of seeds.

“Will you join us for dinner?” Beth asked.

As the doctor waggled his head again, Audie said, “Just pineapple juice for me. I’m not eating after six.”

“Avoid sour juices,” Dr. Nagaraj said. “You are kappa body type.”

Beth said, “I’m hungry, I’m eating.”

The massage had given her an appetite, made her thirsty, tired her, and reminded her that she had a body—her hunger she took to be a sign of health. She loved her body after it had been stroked by the young girl, whom she had trouble simplifying in the word “therapist.”

“Hinduism predates Christianity by many centuries,” Dr. Nagaraj said at the table, without prompting. “You can find god Agni in Rig Veda, more than three thousand of years back. It is our path, our way of seeing the world, our consolation and salvation. Multiple functions and essential to Ayurveda.”