The Other Language(55)
The trip had been her idea. He knew he owed it to her. It was only fair for her to demand they spend time alone together, have a few weeks with nothing coming between them. Yet he couldn’t help thinking of it as a duty rather than a gift. She’d proposed that after handing in the last draft of his novel he take her to India. Since they’d been together, he’d promised just this. But something had always come up and the trip had always been postponed.
“I’ll divorce you, otherwise,” she’d said jokingly.
In the fall he rang an expensive travel agent who organized upmarket tours in the vein of Paul Bowles followers. Then he wrapped the itinerary and tickets in a golden envelope and gave it to her for Christmas.
They’d been at the Fort three days now and so far they’d been the only guests. She had instantly fallen in love with the place and had asked him if they might lengthen their stay instead of moving on to their next destination. He was relieved at the idea of canceling what was left of their exhausting itinerary and settling down somewhere. He didn’t mind that some of the hotels had already been paid for, he’d never been fussy about money. What was more important was the relief of no more hours spent driving on those terrible roads risking their lives, always too close to the HORN PLEASE signs on the backs of those overly painted trucks; no more dark temples with sticky floors, poojas, milk poured on shiny lingams, no more beggars, fumes, swarms of motorcycles carrying husband, wife and two children squeezed on one seat with no helmet; no more ghastly bazaars selling dusty junk, no more haggling with rude rickshaw drivers. They could sit still, make this beautiful place their home, so that he might be able to jot down some lines at last while his wife read and went looking for the handloom textiles the region was famous for.
The hotel had been the family home to a dynasty of maharajas for four hundred years. It was an impressive fortress perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the banks of the Narmada River. It had only a handful of exquisitely furnished rooms open to guests; the rest was still the maharaja’s private home. He was the last heir to the dynasty, a handsome man in his midfifties with a slender, elegant figure, who spoke fluent French, Italian and English with a pleasant American accent, due to the years he’d spent there in college. He joined them every morning for breakfast on the terrace in the rampart, overlooking the river, in a beautiful coat cut in Mughal style, and he reappeared in the evening in a starched kurta and woolen vest and a ruby on his little finger. The maharaja had a Danish wife, who was in Copenhagen at the moment, but they’d seen a picture of her in a silver frame on one of the tables in the drawing room. She was beautiful and wore her sari like she’d been born into it.
Being the only guests had enhanced the feeling of being at home and allowed the fantasy of owning the place. They dined each night in a different courtyard lit by hundreds of candles that flickered in the dark, designing graceful geometric patterns. Every night his wife engaged in conversation with the maharaja—she was of course enraptured by his elegance, his knowledge of the local traditions, but also by his worldly manners and his wit. She was delighted to have the prince all to herself.
He joined her at the beautifully laid breakfast table. There were flowers arranged in small clusters, linen napkins and silverware polished to a glossy shine. An attendant immediately came to pour his tea.
“Where is our prince?” he asked his wife.
“He just left. We had a lengthy discussion about food. He wanted to know about fried zucchini flowers, believe it or not. Apparently he had them in Rome once and has never forgotten them. He wants me to teach him the recipe. Isn’t it hilarious?” She laughed. “You must come and take a picture of me in the kitchen while he and I cook together. Will you?”
He nodded absentmindedly. They both knew that he’d find an excuse not to and that eventually she’d find someone else, either a waiter, the cook or the woman who swept their room—people whose names she’d already memorized—and hand over the camera. It was the kind of photo she most sought to have and to show: immortalized in her shalwar kameez, next to her charming prince, intent on cooking in his kitchen! That would show their friends how far inside real India they’d managed to reach.
“Tomorrow he’s organized a classical dance performance on a tiny island upriver for a group of friends who arrive tonight. We’re invited, of course. Would you like to go?” she said.
He nodded vaguely.
“Let’s see how the day goes.”
“His friends are from Delhi,” she added, as if to stress that the level of familiarity they’d accessed with the prince woudn’t be offset by the arrival of a bunch of foreigners. It was an all-Indian soirée they’d been asked to.
“It’s an Odissi dance performer. Apparently she is the best in the country, he said. The number one.”
She waited for him to show some interest.
“Odissi is the classical dance we’ve seen in the temple sculptures. In Puri, remember? Those beautiful bas-reliefs?”
“As long as it’s not a four-hour-long ordeal. You know how entertainment can drag on forever here.”
“It won’t, I’m sure. I’m sure it’ll be fantastic. He’s so good at creating fabulous sets using just lights and flowers.”
“Do we have to answer now?” he asked. There was a hint of impatience in his voice.