Theroux Paul - A Dead Hand - A Crime in Calcutta

"Mrs. Unger is entirely self-funded. Famous for not asking for donations. She doesn't have to file a financial statement because she isn't accountable to anyone. So we have no idea how extensive her foundation is. That's one way of keeping secrets — pay for the whole thing yourself. It's also one way of being a saint."

I had begun to scribble some of this on a piece of paper, thinking I'd add it to my diary, and I'd become so preoccupied, I'd fallen silent.

"Are you there?" Howard asked. "How long are you going to be around? Maybe we could get together."

"Not sure. I'll let you know," I said, and I knew I sounded as squirmy and evasive as I felt.

I hung up, regretting that I'd told him anything. To my shame, I now knew how desperate I was, how badly I needed to talk to someone, just to reassure myself that I wasn't dreaming.

Infatuated, needy, helpless: I was a middle-aged fool, but I didn't know how to rid myself of the feeling except by seeing Mrs. Unger again. I'd even begun to think of her as Ma. From what Howard had said, she seemed almost unknowable, deliberately secretive; but that was part of her attraction for me. A woman with secrets suited me and seemed to represent a kind of sensuality I craved. Perhaps I was one of her secrets. She certainly was one of mine.

All these speculations were time killers. Another full day went by without my hearing a word from her. A full day in Calcutta in a cheap hotel, with nothing to do, was like a week anywhere else. I stewed and, interrupting my reverie, Parvati called.

"Howard said you were still in Calcutta."

"I have a little work to do." The same lie, sounding lamer.

"You were asking about Mrs. Unger, he said."

Now I really hated myself for having called him.

"Someone in the States was inquiring about her. I was just passing on the message." Blah-blah.

"She's rather controversial."

"Oh?" But this was not what I wanted to hear.

"Some people think she's practically a saint."

"Really."

"And some don't."

"I'm sure the answer lies somewhere in between."

Parvati laughed. "This is Calcutta. Both could be true. What say we meet?"

I hesitated. I said, "I've got this work…"

She became intensely self-conscious, as though I'd rebuffed her — and I suppose I had.

"I shouldn't have been so forward. You're busy, I understand. It's an unwarranted intrusion on your time. I'm so sorry. Believe me, I know all about filling the unforgiving minute."

One of the aspects of Indians I loved most was that they had the language for every occasion. It was still possible to be subtle, even sinuous, in a conversation, probably as a result of the weirdly Victorian verbosity, using politeness and amplification and elaborate excuses and courtesies.

I was sure of this when, unable to stand the silence any longer, I went to the Oberoi and prowled around, hoping to see Mrs. Unger. I would have gone to the Lodge, except that I had no idea where it was: I'd gone in her car, been driven there through the maze of streets, and been driven back. I didn't recognize any landmarks, and so the location of her villa was yet another of her secrets.

As I crossed the lobby on my way out, I glanced at the armchairs on the verandah and saw Rajat sitting alone over a drink. He recognized me but hardly reacted.

"I was looking for—" I didn't know how to finish. I stammered at saying her name. I said, "The grande dame. "

"Ma."

He looked small and miserable. I wanted to see Mrs. Unger, but I could also tell Rajat about my visit to the Ananda. Feeling lucky from my encounters with Mrs. Unger, I was disposed to help him, out of superstition, for my luck to continue.

In his bewilderment, Rajat reminded me of how I had felt on the day I'd received the letter from Mrs. Unger, when I'd had nothing in my head — no ideas, no desire, just a vacancy of spirit. I wasn't sad; I was too insubstantial to be possessed even of sadness. I didn't matter, I'd felt invisible, and everything I'd done in my life had seemed pointless. I had kept myself from making any kind of commitment because of my writing, and now I had no writing. I'd sacrificed for nothing. Mrs. Unger had rescued me. I could return the favor by doing something for Rajat.

I knew that bewilderment and sense of being lost. By a series of deliberate choices and a horrible accident — if the corpse story was true — he'd arrived nowhere and saw nothing ahead of him but emptiness. It was like a grim parable of recognition, the time in your life when you feel there's a corpse in your room — and it's you. With my sense of having a dead hand, this morbidity suited my mood.

"I've been to the Ananda," I said.

He hung his head. "I know what you must think — a terrible place."

It was exactly what I'd thought. A dump, just the sort of hotel where you'd find something shocking in your room. He saw the acknowledgment on my face.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said. "Charlie recommended it to me. He was on a buying trip with Ma and he suggested I stay there while they were away. He doesn't like me to stay at his flat at the Lodge."

"You stay there?"

"Now and again. When Ma's away."

I did not ask the obvious question: When Ma's away? I sat down.

"He seems a nice guy."

"He's fantastic."

I did not pursue that either. A waiter approached. I waved him away. I said, "Rajat, tell me exactly what happened at the hotel."

He looked at his shoes and did not speak for a full minute, one of those silences you take to be obstinate and pathological, or perhaps tactical. A minute is a long time. I was on the point of saying "Look, forget it" when he took a deep breath and began to speak.

"I put off checking in as long as I could, because I really didn't want to stay there alone. That New Market area is colorful if you're with someone, but when you're on your own it's scary — noisy, full of boisterous people, heavy traffic. I finally checked in around five-thirty."

"What day was this?"

"The eighth. It was a Saturday. The manager looked darkly at me. He was glowering."

"Any idea why?"

"Probably because I had no luggage. Just a little shoulder bag with hardly anything in it. He asked how long I was going to stay. I said, 'I'm not sure,' because Ma hadn't given a return date."

"Did you register under your own name?"

He didn't reply at once. Another of those silences that seemed stagy until he began to speak and sounded tormented.

"It's a little complicated. We never use our names when on foundation business. It's Ma's idea. So many people want to pry into her affairs. They're jealous of her humanitarianism and good works."

"What name did you use?"

"My usual one. Krishnaji."

I tried to recall if I'd seen such a name on the register. "What room were you in?"

"I honestly don't remember."

"How many flights up?"

"One, I think. The first floor. A good-sized room facing the rear of the building. It was noisy and the stifling air kept me awake for a long time."

"So you managed to fall asleep?"

"Yes. I don't know for how long. It was still dark when I woke up. I opened my mobile phone to see the time. It was four-something."

"You saw that on your phone?"

"Phone gives day and time. And that was when — see, mobile phone is also like torch. It's adequately bright. I sensed something in the room. Something strange. I shone the phone around, walked a bit, and tripped over a bundle, or so I thought."

Reliving the moment made him pause.

"And?"

"And I shone the light down and saw the body."

"Describe it."

"Small, pale, naked — a boy of about ten or eleven. It was terrifying. His eyes open, his mouth open."

"You knew he was dead?"

"No question. Limp. Lifeless. Looking like clay, a bluish color. Or that color may have been an effect of my light."