He’d only read a few more pages of Malgudi Days when the waitress reappeared and placed a large bowl of spaghetti and a glass of red wine in front of him.
“Grazie,” he said, looking up briefly from his book.
He became so involved in the story that he continued to read as he forked up his food until he suddenly realized his plate was empty. He put the book down and mopped up the remains of the thick tomato sauce with his last piece of bread, before devouring what remained of the olives. The waitress returned and removed his empty plate before handing him the menu.
“Would you like anything else?” she asked in English.
“I can’t afford anything else,” he admitted without guile, not even opening the menu for fear it might tempt him. “Il conto, per favore,” he added, giving her a warm smile.
He was preparing to leave when the waitress reappeared carrying a large portion of tiramisu and an espresso. “But I didn’t order—” he began, but she put a finger to her lips and hurried away before he could thank her. Melanie had once told him it was his boyish charm, which made women want to mother him—a charm, which clearly no longer worked on Melanie.
The tiramisu was delicious, and Richard even put his book down so he could fully appreciate the delicate flavors. As he sipped his coffee, he began to think about where he would spend the night. His thoughts were interrupted when the waitress returned with the bill. As he checked it, he realized she hadn’t charged him for the glass of house red. Should he draw her attention to the omission? Her smile suggested he shouldn’t.
He handed her a ten-euro note and asked if she could recommend somewhere he might spend the night.
“There are only two hotels in the village,” she told him. “And La Contessina” she hesitated—“might be . . .”
“Out of my price range?” suggested Richard.
“But the other one is not expensive, if a little basic.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” said Richard. “Is it far?”
“Nothing is far in Monterchi,” she said. “Walk to the end of the via dei Medici, turn right, and you’ll find the Albergo Piero on your left.”
Richard stood up, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed and hurried away, bringing to his mind Harry Chapin’s sad lyrics in the ballad, “A Better Place to Be.” He threw his rucksack over his shoulder and began to walk down via dei Medici. At the end he turned right and, as the waitress had promised, the hotel was on his left.
He stood outside, uncertain if he could still afford a room now he was down to his last eighty-six euros. Through the glass door he could see a receptionist, head down, checking the register. She looked up, handed a waiting couple a large key, and a porter picked up their bags and led them to the lift.
When he saw her for the first time, he didn’t dare take his eyes off her, for fear the mirage might disappear. She had flawless olive skin, long dark hair that curled up as it touched her slim, graceful shoulders, and large brown eyes that lit up when she smiled. Her dark tailored suit and white blouse had an elegance that Italian men take for granted and English women spend a fortune trying to emulate. She must have been round thirty, perhaps thirty-five, but she was graced with the kind of ageless beauty that made Richard wish he hadn’t only just graduated.
Even if he couldn’t afford a room, nothing was going to stop him speaking to her. He pushed open the door, walked up to the counter, and smiled. She returned the compliment, which made her look even more radiant.
“Vorrei una camera per la notte,” he said.
She looked down at the register. “I’m sorry,” she replied in English, revealing only the slightest accent, “but we’re fully booked. In fact, the last room was taken just a few moments ago.”
Richard glanced across at a row of keys dangling on hooks behind her. “Are you sure you don’t have anything?” he asked. “I don’t care how small the room is,” he added as he peered over the counter at a short list of upside-down names.
Once again, she glanced down at the guest register. “No, I’m sorry,” she repeated. “One or two guests haven’t checked in yet, but I can’t release their rooms because they’ve paid in advance. Have you tried La Contessina? They may still have a room.”
“Not one that I can afford,” said Richard.
She nodded understandingly. “There’s an old lady who runs a guest house at the bottom of the hill, but you’ll have to hurry because she locks her door at eleven.”
“Would you be kind enough to call her and ask if she has a room?”
“She doesn’t have a phone.”
“Perhaps I could spend the night in the lounge?” said Richard hopefully. “Would anyone notice?” He tried out the boyish grin Melanie had once assured him was irresistible.
The receptionist frowned for the first time. “If the manager were to discover you were sleeping in the lounge, not only would she throw you out, but I’d probably lose my job.”
“So it will have to be the nearest field,” he said.
She looked at Richard more closely, leaned across the counter, and whispered, “Take the lift to the top floor and wait there. If any of the bookings don’t show up before midnight, you can have their room.”
“Thank you,” said Richard, wanting to give her a hug.
“You’d better leave your bag in reception,” she added without explanation.
He took off his rucksack and she quickly placed it under the counter. “Thank you,” he repeated, before making his way across to the lift. When the door opened, the porter stepped out and stood to one side, giving Richard a warm smile as he entered it.
The little lift whirred its way slowly up to the top floor and when he stepped out into a dark corridor that was lit by a single, uncovered bulb, Richard couldn’t believe he was still in the same hotel. As there wasn’t a chair to be seen, he hunched down on the well-trodden carpet, his back against the wall, already regretting that he hadn’t taken the book out of his rucksack. For a moment he considered returning to the lobby to retrieve it, but the thought of coming face to face with the manager and being thrown out onto the street was enough to convince him to stay put.
After a few minutes he stood up and began to pace restlessly up and down the corridor, frequently checking his watch.
When midnight struck on the town hall clock, he decided he’d rather sleep in the open air than hang round in that corridor a moment longer. He walked across to the lift, pressed the button and waited. When the doors finally opened, she was standing there, looking even more seductive in the half-light. She stepped out of the lift, took him by the hand, and led him along the corridor until they reached a door with no number. She placed a key in the lock, opened the door, and pulled him inside.
Richard looked round a room that wasn’t much larger than his college study, and was almost completely taken up by a bed that was neither a single nor quite a double. The family photographs dotted round the walls suggested that this was where she lived. As there was only one small chair, he wondered where she expected him to sleep.
“I won’t be a moment,” she said, and gave him that disarming smile again before disappearing into the bathroom. Richard sat down on the wooden chair and waited for her to reappear, not certain what he should do next. When he heard a shower being turned on, a hundred thoughts began to race through his head. He was thinking about Melanie, his first real girlfriend, when the bathroom door swung open. He hadn’t looked at another woman for the past two years. She stepped out, dressed in a bathrobe, the cord undone.
“You look as if you need a shower,” she said, leaving the door open as she brushed past him.
“Thank you,” he replied, and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. Richard enjoyed the feeling of the warm water cascading down on him, and with the assistance of a bar of soap he slowly removed the dirt and grime of a long, hot, sweaty day. After he’d dried himself, he once again regretted leaving his rucksack downstairs, as he didn’t want to put his dirty clothes
back on. He looked round the room and spotted another hotel bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. He was surprised how well it fitted.
Richard turned out the bathroom light and tentatively opened the door. The room was dark, but he could see the outline of her lithe body under a single sheet. As he stood there, a hand pulled the sheet back. He tiptoed across the room and sat upright on the edge of the bed. She pulled the sheet further back, but didn’t speak. He lay down on the bed, his back to her.
A moment later, he felt a hand undo the cord of his bathrobe, while the other hand tried to take it off. He was thinking about Melanie when the receptionist finally pulled off his robe, threw it on the floor, and slid her naked body up against his back. When she began to kiss the nape of his neck, Melanie evaporated. Richard didn’t move a muscle as she began to explore his body, first his neck, then his back, with one hand, while the other moved slowly up the inside of his thigh. He turned over and took her in his arms. She felt so enticing that he wanted to switch the light back on and enjoy the sight of her naked body. When he kissed her, he felt a desire he’d never experienced with any other woman, and when they made love, it was as if it were the first time. As she lay back, Richard still held her in his arms, not wanting to fall asleep.
He woke when he felt her hand moving gently up the inside of his leg. This time he made love slowly and with more confidence, and she made no attempt to disguise her feelings. He couldn’t be sure how many times they made love before the morning sun came streaming into the room, and he saw, for the first time, just how beautiful she was.
When the town hall clock struck eight, she whispered, “You’ll have to leave, il mio amore. I’m expected back on duty at nine.”
Richard kissed her gently on the lips, slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. After a quick shower, he put on his old clothes. When he returned to the bedroom she was standing by the window. He walked across, took her in his arms, and looked hopefully down at the bed.
“Time for you to go,” she whispered after giving him one last kiss.
“I’ll never forget you,” he told her. She smiled wistfully.
She pushed the window up and pointed silently to the fire escape. Richard climbed out and began to tiptoe down the iron staircase, trying not to make too much noise. When his feet touched the ground, he looked up and caught a final glimpse of her naked body. She blew him a kiss, making him wish it was the first day of his holiday and not the last.
He crept stealthily round some flowerpots and down a gravel pathway that led to a trellised gate. He opened the gate and found himself back on the street. He made his way to the front of the hotel, and once again looked through the glass door. The beautiful vision of last night had been replaced by an overweight middle-aged woman, who could only have been the manager.
Richard checked his watch. He needed to collect his rucksack and be on his way if he hoped to see the fresco of the Madonna del Parto and still leave himself enough time to catch the train for Florence.
He walked into the hotel more confidently this time, and strolled up to the counter. The manager raised her head, but didn’t smile. “Buongiorno,” said Richard.
“Buongiorno,” she replied, taking a closer look at him. “How can I help you?”
“I left my rucksack here last night and I’ve come back to collect it.”
“Do you know anything about this, Demetrio?” she asked, not taking her eyes off Richard.
“Si, signora,” the porter replied, removing the rucksack from behind his desk and placing it on the counter. “This one, if I remember, sir,” he said, giving Richard a wink.
“Thank you,” said Richard, who would have liked to give him a tip, but . . . he pulled the rucksack over his shoulder and turned to leave.
“Did you stay with us last night?” asked the manager just as he reached the door.
“No I didn’t,” said Richard, turning round. “Unfortunately, I arrived a little too late, and you didn’t have a room.”
The manager glanced down at the register and frowned. “You say you tried to get a room last night?”
“Yes, but you were fully booked.”
“That’s strange,” she said, “because there were several rooms available last night.”
Richard couldn’t think of a suitable reply.
“Demetrio,” she said, turning to the porter, “who was on duty last night?”
“Carlotta, signora.”
Richard smiled. Such a pretty name.
“Carlotta,” the manager repeated, shaking her head. “I’ll need to have a word with the girl. When is she back on?”
Nine o’clock, Richard almost blurted out.
“Nine o’clock, signora,” said the porter.
The manager turned back toward Richard. “I must apologize, signor. I hope you were not inconvenienced.”
“Not at all,” said Richard as he opened the door, but he didn’t look back for fear that she might see the smile on his face.
The manager waited until the door was closed before she turned to the porter and said, “You know, Demetrio, it’s not the first time she’s done that.”
CASTE-OFF*
15
The driver of the open-top red Porsche touched his brakes, slipped the gear lever into neutral, and brought the car to a halt at the lights before checking his watch. He was running a few minutes late for his lunch appointment. As he waited for the light to turn green, he noticed several men admiring his car, while the women smiled at him.
Jamwal gently touched the accelerator. The engine purred like a tiger and the smiles became even broader. Far more men than usual seemed to be looking in his direction. As the light turned green, he heard an engine revving up to his left. He glanced across to see a Ferrari accelerate away before dodging in and out of the morning traffic. He put his foot down and chased after the man who had dared to steal his thunder.
The Ferrari screeched to a halt at the next set of lights, only just avoiding a cow that was sitting in the middle of the road like a traffic bollard. Jamwal drew up by the side of his challenger, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The young woman seated behind the wheel didn’t give him so much as a glance, although he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
When the light turned green, she accelerated away and left him standing again. Jamwal threw the gear lever into first and chased after her, searching for even the hint of a gap in the traffic that might allow him to overtake her. For the next minute, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the horn as he swerved from lane to lane, narrowly missing bicycles, rickshaws, taxis, buses, and trucks that had no intention of moving aside for him. She matched him yard for yard, and he only just managed to catch her up by the time she came to a reluctant halt at the next traffic lights.
Jamwal drew up by her side and took a closer look. She was wearing an elegant cream silk dress that, like her car, could only have been designed by an Italian, although his mother certainly wouldn’t have approved of the way the hemline rose high enough for him to admire her shapely legs. His eyes returned to her face as she once again accelerated away, leaving him in her slipstream. When he caught up with her at the next intersection, she turned and graced him with a smile that lit up her whole face.
When the lights changed this time, Jamwal was ready to pounce, and they took off together, matching each other cyclist for cyclist, cow for cow, rickshaw for rickshaw, until they both had to throw on their brakes and screech to a halt when a traffic cop held up an insistent arm.
When the policeman waved them on, Jamwal took off like a greyhound out of the slips and shot into the lead for the first time. But his smile of triumph turned to a frown when he glanced in his rearview mirror to see her slowing down and driving into the entrance of the Taj Mahal Hotel. He cursed, threw on his brakes, and executed a U-turn that resulted in a cacophony of horns, shaking fists, and crude expletives as he tried not to lose sight of her.
He glided up to the front of the hotel, where he watched as
she stepped out of her car and handed the keys to a valet. Jamwal leaped out of his Porsche without bothering to open the door, threw his keys to the valet, ran up the steps, and followed her into the hotel. As he entered the lobby, she was disappearing into a lift. He waited to see which floor she would get out on. First stop was the mezzanine: fashionable shops, a hair salon, and a French bistro. Would it be minutes or hours before she reappeared? Jamwal walked over to the reception desk. “Did you see that girl?” he asked the clerk.
“I think every man in the lobby saw her, sahib.”
Jamwal grinned. “Do you know who she is?”
“Yes, sahib, she is Miss Chowdhury.”
“The daughter of Shyam Chowdhury?”
“I believe so.”
Jamwal smiled again. A few phone calls and he would know everything he needed to about Shyam Chowdhury’s daughter. By the time they next met, he would already be in first gear. The only thing that surprised him was that he hadn’t come across her before. He picked up the guest phone and dialed a local number.
“Hi, Sunita. I’ve been held up at the office, someone needed to see me urgently. Let’s try and catch up this evening. Yes, of course I remembered,” he said, keeping a watchful eye on the bank of lifts. “Yes, yes. We’re having dinner tonight. I’ll be with you round eight,” he promised.
The lift door opened and she stepped out carrying a Ferragamo bag. “Got to rush,” he said. “Can’t keep my next appointment waiting.” He put the phone down, just as she walked past him, and quickly caught up with her.
“I didn’t want to bother you . . .” he began.
She turned and smiled sweetly, but did not stop walking. “It’s no bother, but I’m not looking for a chauffeur at the moment.”
“How about a boyfriend?” he said, not missing a beat.
“Thank you but no. I don’t think you could handle the pace.”
“Well, why don’t we try and find out over dinner tonight?”