(1993) Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend Read online

  He watched them as the driver constantly honked at goats and cattle and people, weaving through traffic, waved on by cops standing on small pedestals at the busier intersections. Into the countryside on a two-lane, severely bruised blacktop. Ashok and Tata trucks with workmen riding on top, their headwraps blowing in the wind. Buses careening around the curves, bullock carts in front of them, an old woman pedaling a wheelchair contraption in the other lane, people walking, herds of goats crossing.

  The driver turned up his radio, giving him and Michael the sound of a flute and drummers playing complex rhythms on tablas beneath it. He pounded the horn and made the occult Indian hand signals telling other drivers what his intentions were. India: moving . . . moving . . . tablas and flutes and dust, the road in front looking like a ragtag caravan put together with all the travelers and vehicles from the last five hundred years.

  Michael held a banana over the front scat. The driver took it and gave Michael a flash of perfect white teeth, leaned on his horn, and peeled the banana, hot air roaring in through the open windows. They entered a town, and Michael unfolded his map of India. Must be Chengalpattu. They'd be going slightly southwest to Madurantakam and then would make a southeast turn at Tindivanam, where a small blue line ran over to Pondicherry on the Bay of Bengal.

  Michael thumbed the five-dollar Pondicherry guide, looking at confusing street maps, reading the town's history. It was a union territory, a city-state much like Washington, D. C. The state of Tamil Nadu on its west, the bay on its east. Settled by French traders in the seventeenth century, returned to India in 1954. Jellie, are you there along the streets of Pondicherry? On the off chance she had ridden with this same driver to Pondicherry, if she had gone to Pondicherry at all, Michael took out her picture and handed it to the driver.

  The driver looked at it, turned his head, and grinned, shouting over the wind and flute music, "Pretty lady. You go see her in Pondy?"

  Michael worked back down into pidgin English. "Lady ride this car?" He pointed at Jellie in the photo, then at the driver and the interior of the car. Michael said it again: "Pretty lady ride this car?"

  It took the driver a second, but he got the meaning and shook his head. "No, no see lady." Michael nodded and put the photo back in his bush jacket.

  The guide said Pondicherry had a population of 150,000, but Michael knew that was probably a best guess, far under the true count. Where to start? Like all Indian cities, he figured it would be a maze of little streets and complex buildings tied in with one another via walkways and alleys. Even if she was in Pondy, it was not going to be easy. The ashram attracted people from all over the world who came to study the teachings of Sri Aurobindo and his consort, a French woman known only as "the Mother." Both of them were dead. But, according to the guide, the ashram flourished. A visionary settlement called Auroville, also known as the City of Dawn, supposedly fashioned around the teachings of Aurobindo and the Mother, had been developing for over a decade just outside of Pondicherry. The guide quoted Mother: "Auroville will be a site of material and spiritual researches for a living embodiment of an actual Human Unity."

  That sounded like Jellie. Anthropologists, many of them, at least, had a strong inclination toward matters of the spirit, something to do with their trade. If Jellie was running and seeking spiritual guidance, the ashram and Auroville might be a good place to start.

  He'd need a place to stay and looked at advertisements in the guide as the driver swerved and honked and signaled.

  Ajantha Guest House-An Oasis of Luxury

  Hotel Aristo-A Touch of Class, Truly an Aristocratic Experience

  Hotel Ram International-It's a Whole New World

  To the Western eye and ear, Indians had a penchant for overstatement, not to mention hyperbole, and Michael discounted heavily what he read. Not that he was fussy. He'd stayed many nights in small Indian hotels where a hole in the floor worked as a toilet and the shower was cold, if there was a shower at all. After a few nights, however, he'd forget there was any other way than cold showers and a hole in the floor, and it all worked just fine. A hot shower, in traditional south Indian terms, would justify the claim "Truly an Aristocratic Experience."

  He concentrated on Jellie, thinking hard about her ways and what he knew of her preferences. Where would she stay? The Park Guest House was part of the ashram and had a Spartan attitude toward smoking, liquor, and human weaknesses in general. Jellie had come to think things over, according to her cable, and the guest house with its gardens, vegetarian restaurant, and meditative overtones spoke to that way of life.

  Initially Michael thought that finding Jellie, if she was in Pondicherry, would not be all that difficult. White skin stood out in most of India. But it was a much larger town than he'd anticipated, and the guide stated many Westerners came to bathe in the rarefied spirit of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother. And, as Michael had already considered, it was easy to get lost in India if that's what you wanted. India cpuld present a silent, impenetrable face when it chose, leaving you on the outside with no view to the interiors. Jellie was an old India hand, apparently with good connections, and would know how to conceal herself if she made up her mind to do that.

  If you were in a hurry, India could be infuriating.

  The driver decided lunch was in order at Madurantakam. He pulled over and went up to an outdoor food stand. Michael wasn't hungry but drank a cup of tea and ate one of the Snickers he'd bought in Heathrow. People gathered around him at a respectful distance and stared; routine curiosity, nothing more.

  The sun was high and hard at noon. He clumped the old cotton hat on his head, fending off the kids who were less circumspect than their elders and wanted something, anything, from him. He bought some more oranges and handed them around, though the kids would have preferred something more wondrous, such as a cheap ballpoint pen from America. Sweat soaked through his shirt, ran down his chest and back. Michael was wiping his face and neck with a red bandanna when the driver signaled it was time to leave.

  Forty-five minutes later they made the turn at Tindivanam and headed southeast toward Pondicherry, running along a rough surface in worse shape than the road they'd just left. This was semiarid land, palm trees arching over the road. People were spreading stalks of grain on the pavement, drying the grain, and letting vehicle wheels act as kind of a primitive threshing machine.

  Outskirts of Pondicherry. The map fastened in the back of the city guide indicated they were coming in on Jawaharlal Nehru Street, apparently one of the main thoroughfares. Michael decided against staying at the ashram's guest house, mostly because he wasn't sure how Jellie might feel if he suddenly showed up. If she saw him before he saw her, she might retreat with whatever secrets she carried and become impossible to find once she knew he was here looking for her.

  The Grand Hotel d'Europe at Number 12 Rue Suffren was in the same general area as most of the ashram's workshops and not far from the guest house. It was run by an old Frenchman, a Monsieur Maigrit, according to the guide. Michael suspected the food would be continental, which suited him fine, since he tended to burn down pretty fast on a straight Indian diet.

  Michael motioned for the driver to pull over and showed him the map. The driver had trouble reading it, started talking rapidly, pointing ahead. Michael let him go on, and they halted at a busy street corner where two hundred bicycles waited for a green light. The driver got out with the map and talked to several men standing in front of a tea shop. Arms waved, heads shook, hands pointed. All of this went on for a minute or two before the driver returned. He said something Michael didn't understand, zigzagging his hand, which Michael took to mean they should work their way through the city and then turn right.

  That seemed to fit, based on the map. They plowed up the busy main drag of Pondy and eventually hit a dead end at Rue St. Louis. The driver got out, went through the arms-head-hand language again, and came back to the car. A right turn, then skirting a large park on whose benches sat both Indians and aging French Legion
naires by the looks of their caps. A few blocks farther on another right, then a left. Painted on a building were the words Rue Sufjren. Number 12 came up a half block later.

  Michael knocked on the high wooden gate. An old Indian man in tan shorts and a white headwrap peeked out. Michael said, "Room?"

  The gatekeeper glanced at the car and driver, then back at the tall American with wrinkled clothes and no luggage except a knapsack. Almost reluctantly he swung the gate open and indicated Michael should come into the courtyard. It was an old building, covered with vines and bougainvillea. Maigrit, Michael assumed it was him, came out of a doorway. Michael bowed slightly. "Do you have a room for a tired traveler?"

  Maigrit looked at him, said nothing. Michael had arrived without prior reservations, which was probably considered a serious breach of decorum. Michael didn't speak much French, having forgotten most of what he'd learned as part of his Ph. D. language requirement. But he smiled the good midwestern smile that seemed to get him by in most of the world and gave it a try: "Je voudrais une chambre?"

  Maigrit smiled back, recognizing incompetence but approving of the effort. Yes, a room was available for 150 rupees, about 9 dollars a night. Michael figured with advance reservations and a little haggling he could have knocked it down about a third or maybe half, but he was tired, and the location suited him.

  Maigrit informed him the daily afternoon water shutoff was in progress, so a bath was not possible, but the boy, who was about seventy-five, would bring a small bucket of water if Monsieur Tillman wanted to wash up. Michael thanked him and said that would be appreciated. And was laundry service available? Shirts could be washed, ironed, and returned in four hours for double the normal price. The regular price was six cents a shirt.

  The boy delivered water, took the shirts, and Michael washed his face, then lay down on the bed and thought. Home was forty-six hours behind, though his internal abacus lied and said it was longer, years maybe. A week ago he'd been sitting in his apartment waiting for Jellie to return from Syracuse. Ten days ago she lay naked on his kitchen table while he rubbed red wine over her breasts. "Jellie, are you somewhere on the other side of these walls, close by, living out what you never want me to know?"

  Chapter Ten.

  Michacl awakened a little before six when the old man rapped on his door. He'd slept for nearly four hours and got up feeling hot and stiff and road weary. He opened the door, took the shirts, and gave the man a tip. The old man bowed and left, looking back at Michael over his shoulder.

  Michael checked the faucets. The water had come back on, and he was a little surprised when the left tap gave him a warm stream. He ran a small tub, shaved, and got himself presentable with a clean body, clean shirt, and fresh pair of Levi's.

  The proprietor was on the veranda, reading a French newspaper. What Michael needed first was flexible transportation, a motorcycle. He'd seen a number of smaller bikes when the driver brought him through town. Yes, a small motorcycle could be rented at a location on Mahatma Gandhi Road. Maigrit had the gatekeeper call a bicycle rickshaw for Michael and spoke in Tamil to the rickshaw man, giving him the address. Maigrit said the ride would cost a quarter, and a dime tip would be about right.

  Michael watched the bulging leg muscles of the man pedaling him through the streets of Pondicherry. Unlike some Westerners who had never traveled in these places and frowned on the use of rickshaws as something next to slavery, Michael didn't see it that way. If you asked the rickshaw man how he felt about it, he wouldn't understand the question. It was how he made his living, and he was quite happy to deliver you somewhere for a fee. It was called participating in the local economy. As Michael once told a colleague who disdained such colonialist behavior, "Pay the rickshaw man New York cab fare, maybe it will make you feel more politically correct." Taxi or rickshaw, it was all a matter of muscle power with differences in the degree of it used.

  India was, in many ways, an evening country. The heat and dust settled down late in the day, and the streets were crowded. Merchants stayed open late. Time then for long, leisurely dinners and laughter in the cafes, commencing around nightfall. The rickshaw man turned left on Sastry Street, pedaling a straight line toward MG Road. Michael sat there feeling exposed, not wanting Jellie to see him coasting along through the streets of Pondicherry.

  Christ, he thought, how strange this is. Here I am looking for a woman with whom I've made love, a woman who rolls in pleasure beneath my touch and says over and over again how much she loves me.

  Yet I'm worried about her seeing me. It's a curious world, Michael Tillman. That's what he said to himself as the rickshaw bumped along through the south India twilight.

  The motorcycle rental outfit was located in a little garage next to the Cool Cat Coffee Bar with grease everywhere and parts scattered about. Michael felt at home. Two machines leaned against the door, two more were torn down inside. Michael could have either of the two by the door. He looked them over. They were rough as the roads they traveled and pretty well banged up. The old Kawasaki looked like it might run, and after a few kicks he had it going. The proprietor stood watching him, hands on hips, not smiling. Michael pointed to tools on the workbench.

  Ten minutes later he had the chain tightened and the carburetor adjusted. The garage man was grinning. Technical competence always brought respect. Michael paid a fifty-dollar deposit and recalibrated his mind to driving on the left-hand side of the road, then took the Kawasaki out into evening traffic, running easy until he got the feel of driving in what always seemed the wrong way.

  He took the same route back to the hotel as he'd come, picking up two plastic containers of bottled water on the way, and parked the bike in the courtyard. Tonight he'd walk. When the search needed to be expanded or he had to get somewhere in a hurry, the bike would take him there.

  Maigrit greeted him and said what a handsome machine Michael had found. Michael took out the picture of Jellie and said he was looking for her.

  Maigrit looked at it, then at Michael, and asked, "Amour?" Michael smiled and nodded. Maigrit was sorry, but he'd never seen her. "There are many Western women who come here to participate in the ashram. They look for comfort and inner peace, perhaps a new way of life."

  The Frenchman no longer operated a restaurant in his hotel, but if Michael wanted continental food, the Alliance Franqaise was not far, just opposite the Park Guest House. It was a club, though membership rules were not tightly enforced. Simply walk through the gate, cross the courtyard, and go up the steps.

  Michael thought twice about going there. He wasn't too worried about running into Jellie, because he figured she wanted to sink back into Indian ways and would take her meals at Indian restaurants or, more likely, cook for herself. But word moved fast in these Indian towns, and he had a feeling the Western community would pass the news about a newcomer who wore jeans and sandals and seemed to be looking for someone.

  But he was hungry and wasn't ready for Indian cuisine yet, so he walked through quiet streets in the direction the Frenchman had directed him. A few people sat on steps in this section of the city, but most of the houses were behind high walls. Two white men with shaved heads and wearing saffron-colored wraps, bare legs poking out from thigh level down, went by in the opposite direction, paying no attention to Michael.

  He turned left on Rue Bazare St. Laurent, missed his right turn on Rue Dumas, and came to Cours Chabrol-Beach Road-running along the seawall. The night breeze was kind, and Michael stood in the shadows at the end of Rue Bazare St. Laurent without crossing over to the seawall. The walkways were crowded with evening strollers. Off to his right, just up the road, was the gated entrance to the Park Guest House, the ashram's hotel.

  When two Western women in Indian dress came along the sidewalk, he turned around, heading back up the street he had just come down, feeling odd, as if he were involved in an international espionage operation. Jellie, what have you done to me? I was content, if not supremely happy, before we met, and here I am walking the bac
k streets of India looking for you, and in some small part of me not wanting to find you, fearful of what you might say, of what you might tell me you are going to do with the rest of your life.

  A guard stood at the Alliance Franchise's gate. Michael pointed at his own chest, then pointed inside and said, "Restaurant?"

  The guard nodded and motioned him through the gate. There were trees and flowers in the courtyard. Off to one side was a cement platform where an Indian woman was dancing to the rhythm of a drummer sitting cross-legged in the shadows behind her.

  No one else was in the courtyard, but he could hear an accordion playing a French song in the building ahead of him. Michael watched the dancer for a moment. She was oblivious of him, stopping after a moment and speaking to the drummer, who then started off again in a slightly different rhythm.

  The first floor of the place had a unisex bathroom and a black-and-white photography exhibition hanging on its gray walls. Music and laughter came from the floor above, and he went up the stairs into the restaurant. Half of it was covered, the rest was open to the night. Waiters were moving rapidly around in white uniforms, and a young Indian in dark slacks and purple shirt came toward Michael, speaking in French. Michael smiled and said, "Dinner, please?"

  "Just one, monsieur?" His English was very good.

  Michael nodded.

  "Do you prefer indoors or outside?"

  "Outside, please."

  The maitre d' seated Michael at a small table off in a corner. Michael's entrance caused a few curious heads to turn, but the laughter and eating and drinking quickly resumed. He ordered beer and a chicken brochette from the open-flame barbecue built into the wall across the room from where he was seated. Stars were out, the scent of jasmine came on the night wind, and he sat there alone, staring at his hands.