Indian Nocturne

  ‘Not as a rule,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have one now if you’re offering.’

  He rolled another for me and said: ‘It’s good this mixture, it makes you feel happy. Are you happy?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I was enjoying your story, go on with it.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘one day I was walking down a street in Philadelphia, it was very cold, I was delivering the mail, it was morning, the city was covered in snow, Philadelphia is so ugly. I was walking down these huge roads, then I turned into a smaller street, long and dark, with just a blade of sunlight that had managed to break through the smog lighting the end of the street. I knew that street, I delivered there every day, it was a street that ended in the wall of a car repair place. Well, you know what I saw that day? Try and guess.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

  ‘Try and guess.’

  ‘I give up, it’s too difficult.’

  ‘The sea,’ he said. ‘I saw the sea. At the end of the street there was a beautiful blue sea with the waves crested with foam and a sandy beach and palm trees. How about that, eh?’

  ‘Strange,’ I said.

  ‘I’d only seen the sea at the cinema before, or on postcards from Miami or Havana. And this was exactly like those, an ocean, but with nobody there, the beach deserted. I thought, they’ve brought the sea to Philadelphia. And then I thought, I’m seeing a mirage, like you read about in books. What would you have thought?’

  ‘The same,’ I said.

  ‘Right. But the sea can’t get to Philadelphia. And mirages happen in the desert when the sun is burning down and you’re desperately thirsty. And that day it was freezing cold with the city full of dirty snow. So I crept up, very slowly, drawn on by that sea and feeling like I’d like to dive right in, even if it was cold, because the blue was so inviting and the waves were gleaming, lit by the sun.’ He paused a moment and took a drag on his cigarette. He smiled with an absent, distant expression, reliving that day. ‘It was a picture. They’d painted the sea, those bastards. They do it sometimes in Philadelphia, it’s an idea the architects had, they paint on the concrete, landscapes, valleys, woods and the rest, so that you don’t feel so much like you’re living in a shithole of a city. I was about a foot away from that sea on the wall, with my bag on my shoulder; at the end of the street the wind made a little eddy and beneath the golden sand there was litter and dry leaves whirling around, and a plastic bag. Dirty beach, in Philadelphia. I looked at it a moment and thought, if the sea won’t go to Tommy, Tommy will go to the sea. How about that?’

  ‘I was familiar with another version,’ I said, ‘but the concept is the same.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve got it,’ he said. ‘And so you know what I did? Try and guess.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Try and guess.’

  ‘I give up,’ I said, ‘it’s too difficult.’

  ‘I took the lid off a trashcan and dumped in my mailbag. You wait there, letters. Then I made a dash back to the head office and asked to speak to the boss. I need three months’ salary in advance, I said, my father has a serious illness, he’s in hospital, look at these doctor’s certificates. He said: first sign this statement. I signed it and took the money.’

  ‘But was your father really ill?’

  ‘Sure he was, he had cancer. But he was going to die just the same, even if I did go on carrying the mail to the ladies and gents of Philadelphia.’

  ‘That’s logical,’ I said.

  ‘I brought just one thing away with me,’ he said. ‘Try and guess what.’

  ‘Really, it’s too difficult, it’s no good, I give up.’

  ‘The telephone directory,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘The telephone directory?’

  ‘Right, the Philadelphia telephone directory. That was my only luggage, it’s all that’s left me of America.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. I was getting interested.

  ‘I write postcards. It’s me who writes the ladies and gents of Philadelphia now. Postcards with a nice sea and the deserted Calangute beach, and on the back I write: Best wishes from mailman Tommy. I’ve got up to letter C. Obviously I skip the areas I’m not interested in and send them without a stamp, the person who gets it pays.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Four years,’ he said.

  ‘The Philadelphia phone directory must be long.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, ‘it’s enormous. But then, I’m not in any hurry, I’ve got my whole life.’

  The group on the beach had lit a large fire, someone began to sing. Four people left the group and came towards us, they had flowers in their hair and smiled at us. A young woman was holding a girl of about ten by the hand.

  ‘The party’s about to begin,’ said Tommy. ‘It’ll be a big party, it’s the equinox.’

  ‘Equinox nothing,’ I said, ‘the equinox is the twenty-third of September, it’s December now.’

  ‘Well, something like that anyway,’ answered Tommy. The girl kissed him on the forehead and then went off again to the others.

  ‘They’re not that young any more though, are they?’ I said. ‘They look like middle-aged parents.’

  ‘They’re the ones who came here first,’ Tommy said, ‘the Pilgrims.’ Then he looked at me and said: ‘Why, what are you like?’

  ‘Like them,’ I said.

  ‘You see,’ he said. He rolled himself another cigarette, split it in two and gave me half. ‘What are you doing round here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m looking for someone called Xavier, he may have passed through here from time to time.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘But is he happy for you to be looking for him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So don’t look for him then.’

  I tried to give him a detailed description of Xavier. ‘When he smiles he looks sad,’ I finished.

  A girl left the group and called to us. Tommy called back to her and she came towards us. ‘My girlfriend,’ Tommy explained. She was a pale blonde girl with vacant eyes and two childish pigtails gathered up on her head. She swayed as she walked, a little hesitant. Tommy asked her if she knew a guy who looked like this and this, repeating my description. She smiled incongruously and didn’t answer. Then she sweetly stretched out her hands to us and whispered: ‘Hotel Mandovi.’

  ‘The party’s beginning,’ said Tommy. ‘Come along.’

  We were sitting on the edge of a very primitive boat with a crude float like a catamaran’s. ‘Maybe I’ll come over later,’ I said. ‘I’m going to lie down a while in the boat and take a nap.’ As they were going away I couldn’t resist it and shouted after him that he had forgotten to tell me if I was a gentleman like the rest. Tommy stopped, raised his arms and said: ‘Try and guess.’

  ‘I give up,’ I shouted, ‘it’s too difficult.’ I got out my guidebook and lit matches. I found it almost at once. They described it as a ‘popular, top range hotel’, with a respectable restaurant. In Panaji, once Nova Goa, inland. I stretched out on the bottom of the boat and looked at the sky. The night was truly magnificent. I followed the constellations and thought about the stars and the time when we used to study them and the afternoons spent at the planetarium. All at once I remembered how I had learnt them, classifying them by the intensity of their light: Sirius, Canopus, Centaurus, Vega, Capella, Arcturus, Orion . . . And then I thought of the variable stars and the book of a person dear to me. And then of the dead stars, whose light still reaches us, and of the neutron stars in the last stage of evolution, and the feeble ray they emit. In a low voice I said: pulsar. And almost as if reawakened by my whisper, or as if I had started a tape recorder, I heard the nasal phlegmatic voice of Professor Stini saying: When the mass of a dying star is greater than double the solar mass, the matter is no longer in a state such as to arrest the process of concentration which then proceeds ad infinitum; no radiation will ever leave that star again and it is thus transformed into a black hole.


  XI

  How odd life is. The Hotel Mandovi takes its name from the river it stands beside. The Mandovi is a wide, calm river with a long estuary lined with beaches, almost like sea beaches. On the left there is the port of Panaji, a river port for small steamers pulling barges laden with merchandise. There are two dilapidated gangways and a rusty jetty. And when I arrived, right by the edge of the jetty, as if it were coming out of the river, the moon rose. It had a yellow halo and was full and blood-coloured. I thought, red moon, and instinctively I started whistling an old song. The idea came like a short circuit. I thought of a name, Roux, and then immediately of those words of Xavier’s: ‘I have become a night bird’; and then everything seemed so obvious, stupid even, and I thought: Why didn’t I think of it before?

  I went into the hotel and took a look around. The Mandovi was built in the late fifties and already has an air of being old. Perhaps it was built when the Portuguese were still in Goa. I don’t know what it was, but the place seemed to have preserved something of the fascist taste of the period. Perhaps it was the big lobby that looked like a station waiting room, or perhaps it was the impersonal, depressing post-office or civil-service-style furniture. Behind the desk were two employees; one had a striped tunic, and the other a slightly shabby black jacket and an air of importance about him. I went to the latter and showed him my passport.

  ‘I’d like a room.’

  He consulted the register and nodded.

  ‘With terrace and river view,’ I specified.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ I asked as he was filling out my form.

  ‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘The manager is away, but I am at your service for anything you may need.’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Nightingale,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Nightingale isn’t here any more,’ he said perfectly naturally. ‘He left some time ago.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’ I asked, trying to keep sounding natural myself.

  ‘Normally he goes to Bangkok,’ he said. ‘Mr Nightingale travels a lot, he’s a businessman.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I said, ‘but I thought he might have come back.’

  The man raised his eyes from the form and looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ he said politely.

  ‘I thought there might be someone in the hotel in a position to give me some more precise information. I’m looking for him for an important piece of business. I’ve come from Europe specially.’ I saw he was confused and took advantage of it. I took out a twenty-dollar bill and slipped it under the passport. ‘Business deals cost money,’ I said. ‘It’s annoying to come a long way for nothing, if you see what I mean.’

  He took the note and gave me back my passport. ‘Mr Nightingale comes here very rarely these days,’ he said. He assumed an apologetic expression. ‘You’ll appreciate,’ he added, ‘ours is a good hotel, but it can’t compete with the luxury hotels.’ Perhaps it was only at that moment that he realised he was saying too much. And he also realised that I appreciated his saying too much. It happened in a glance, an instant.

  ‘I have to clinch an urgent deal with Mr Nightingale,’ I said, though with the clear impression that this tap had now been turned off. And it had. ‘I am not concerned with Mr Nightingale’s business affairs,’ he said politely but firmly. Then he went on in a professional tone: ‘How many days will you be staying, sir?’

  ‘Just tonight,’ I said.

  As he was giving me the key I asked him what time the restaurant opened. He replied promptly that it opened at eight-thirty and that I could order from the menu or go to the buffet which would be laid on in the middle of the room. ‘The buffet is Indian food only,’ he explained. I thanked him and took the key. When I was already at the lift I turned back and asked innocuously, ‘I imagine Mr Nightingale ate in the hotel when he was staying here.’ He looked at me without really understanding. ‘Of course,’ he replied proudly. ‘Our restaurant is one of the finest in the city.’

  Wine costs a lot in India, it is almost all imported from Europe. To drink wine, even in a good restaurant, confers a certain prestige. My guidebook said the same thing: to order wine means to bring in the head waiter. I gambled on the wine.

  The head waiter was a plump man with dark rings round his eyes and Brylcreemed hair. His pronunciation of French wines was disastrous, but he did all he could to explain the qualities of each brand. I had the impression he was improvising a little, but I let it go. I made him wait a good while, studying the list. I knew I was breaking the bank, but this would be the last money I spent to this end: I took a twenty-dollar bill, laid it inside the list, closed it and handed it to him. ‘It’s a difficult choice,’ I said. ‘Bring me the wine Mr Nightingale would choose.’

  He showed no surprise. He strutted off and came back with a bottle of Rosé de Provence. He uncorked it carefully and poured a little for me to try. I tasted it but didn’t give an opinion. He didn’t say anything either, impassive. I decided that the moment had come to play my card. I drank another sip and said: ‘Mr Nightingale buys only the best, I’ve heard, what do you think?’

  He looked at the bottle with inexpressive eyes. ‘I don’t know, sir, it depends on your tastes,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘The fact is that my tastes are very demanding too,’ I said. ‘I only buy the best.’ I paused to give more emphasis to what I was saying, and at the same time to make it sound more confidential. I felt as though I were in a film, and I was almost enjoying the game. The sadness would come later, I knew that. ‘Very refined,’ I finally said, stressing ‘refined’, ‘and in substantial quantities, not just a drop at a time.’

  He looked at my glass again without expression and went on with the game. ‘I gather that the wine is not to your liking, sir.’

  I was sorry that he had upped the stakes. My finances were running low, but at this point it was worth getting to the bottom of the business. And then I was sure that Father Pimentel would be able to make me a loan. So I accepted his raise and said: ‘Bring me back the list, please, I’ll see if I can choose something better.’

  He opened the list on the table and I slipped in another twenty dollars. Then I pointed to a wine at random and said: ‘Do you think Mr Nightingale would like this?’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ he replied attentively.

  ‘I’d be interested to ask him personally,’ I said. ‘What would you advise?’

  ‘If I were in sir’s position I would look for a good hotel on the coast,’ he said.

  ‘There are a lot of hotels on the coast, it’s difficult to find just the right one.’

  ‘There are only two really good ones,’ he answered. ‘You can’t go wrong: Fort Aguada Beach and the Oberoi. They are both magnificently located with charming beaches, and palm trees that go right down to the sea. I’m sure you will find both to your liking.’

  I got up and went to the buffet. There were a dozen trays on a spirit-warmer. I took some food at random, picking here and there. I stopped by the open window, my plate in my hand. The moon was already nice and high and reflected in the river. Now the melancholy was setting in, as I had foreseen. I realised I wasn’t hungry. I crossed the room and went to the door. As I was going out, the head waiter made a slight bow. ‘Could you have the wine brought up to my room,’ I said. ‘I’d prefer to drink it on the terrace.’

  XII

  ‘Excuse the banality of the remark, but I have the impression we’ve met before,’ I said. I lifted my glass and touched it against hers on the bar. The girl laughed and said: ‘I have the same impression myself. You look strangely like the man I shared a taxi with this morning from Panaji.’

  I laughed too. ‘Oh well, it’s no good denying it, I’m the very man.’

  ‘You know that sharing that cab was an excellent idea?’ she added with an air of practicality. ‘The guidebooks say the taxis are very cheap in India, but it’s not true, they’d take the shirt off your back.??
?

  ‘Let me recommend a reliable guidebook some time,’ I said with authority. ‘Our taxi went outside the city, hence the price trebles. I had hired a car, but I had to give it up because it was too expensive. In any case, the major advantage for me was to be able to make the trip in such pleasant company.’

  ‘Stop,’ she said, ‘don’t take advantage of the tropical night and this hotel amongst the palms. I’m susceptible to compliments and I would let myself be chatted up without offering any resistance. It wouldn’t be fair on your part.’ She lifted her glass too and we laughed again.

  The description of magnificence given by the head waiter of the Mandovi erred only by default. The Oberoi was more than magnificent. It was a white, crescent-shaped building which exactly followed the curve of the beach along which it was built, a bay protected by a promontory to the north and cliffs to the south. The main lounge was a huge open space that continued out onto the terrace, from which it was separated only by the bar where drinks were served on both sides. On the terrace, tables had been laid for dinner, decorated with flowers and lamps. Hidden away somewhere in the dark a piano was softly playing Western music. Actually, thinking about it, the whole effect was too much in the line of luxury tourism, but at the time this didn’t bother me. The first diners were taking their places at the tables on the terrace. I told the waiter to reserve us a corner table in a discreet position and a little away from the light. Then I suggested another aperitif.

  ‘As long as it’s not alcoholic,’ the girl said and then went on in her playful tone: ‘I think you’re going a bit fast, what makes you assume I’ll accept your offer of dinner?’

  ‘To tell the truth I had no intention of offering dinner,’ I confessed candidly. ‘I’ve almost run out of what few reserves I had and each of us will have to pay our own way. We’ll simply be dining at the same table; we’re alone, we can keep each other company, it seemed logical to me.’