Make Me an Idol

Zelda woke slowly. Sleep ebbed from her body, leaving her feeling stranded, abandoned. She looked around the plain room, with its pastel curtains, white china and blank television screen. It could have been anywhere.

Over by the door her backpack stood like a limbless torso propped against the wall. Her eye lingered on the worn canvas stained with campfire charcoal and engine grease from the back of the jeep. On the flap was the sketchy outline of an American flag, a patch of coloured threads almost worn away. It had been James’s pack; the one he had taken when he left home, went to college, went everywhere. There was a time, he’d said, when that pack was like a part of him. He had given it to Zelda to take on her first school camp, lifting it up onto her narrow shoulders and adjusting the straps. It was big and soft, with just her toothbrush, nightie, sleeping bag and torch inside. You look like a tortoise, he’d said, and kissed her on the cheek.

The old pack stood there, solid and shabby; a single relic washed up from a wreck, a remnant of all that was lost. Zelda turned and buried her face in the pillow. James is dead. He’s gone. Mum is alive. She’s here. The words were like a mantra, binding together pain and hope into a single strand: barbed-wire laced with velvet ribbon. It twisted inside her, snagging in her heart and rising like fear—or joy—in her throat. She lay still, her eyes fixed on the blank ceiling, tracing the spidery cracks that ran through the plaster.

Mind over matter, she told herself. Be brave. Be Daddy’s girl. You can’t feel a thing.

Slowly the pain settled into a dull shadow in the pit of her being. It would rear up, she knew, when it chose: slicing through half-formed words; leaving her breathless, her heart hammering. And bringing with it a sense of urgency. All those hours on the plane she had listened to the engines droning on and on, eating up the miles. Taking her away. Bringing her closer. Closer …

India? She remembered Drew’s voice on the phone, sharp with barely concealed pain. What the hell do you know about India?

Keen’s Indian Curry Powder (a daring sprinkle into the sausage casserole); Indian cricketers; Indian ink; the hitchhikers from the mainland in their Indian skirts and leather thongs (hippies, James called them. Goddamn freaks). And Lizzie’s ‘Stamps For India’ saved up in a jar. Ragged shapes, with torn pieces of brown envelope still clinging to their backs. The mission sold them to stamp collectors, she said, and sent money to the Little Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Indian nuns, who swept like angels through the slums of Calcutta collecting unwanted babies and taking them away to be washed, fed and lined up in rows of matching cribs.

Zelda closed her eyes and recalled her arrival in Delhi. She saw again the hot night streets sprawled with sleeping bodies, looking like the aftermath of a catastrophe. Policemen standing in the shadows, with dark skin, dark clothes, dark guns—their eyes too white. She saw the lights of the taxi swinging over the sentry box, with ‘Delhi Police’ painted on the side. Their motto: ‘With you for you always.’

With you, for you, always. It sounded like an epitaph, or a line from a suicide note; something scrawled across the mirror in the room of a crime.

Zelda showered quickly and dressed in clean clothes. Then she drank a glass of water carefully laced with iodine. It tasted of swimming pools and doctors and made her think of Rye. Two days before she had left the island, a package had arrived at the post office. Inside was a cloth bag, containing the bottle of iodine, a tube of insect repellent, a mosquito net, medicines, money belt, maps, lists of hotels, and names and phone numbers of people to call on if she needed help. There was a book as well: India—A Travel Survival Kit. It covered everything, from finding bed bugs to choosing safe food. Zelda had looked up Delhi and Rishikesh and found notes scrawled in the margins. The bold, sloping handwriting matched the style of the accompanying letter—Rye’s three pages of warnings and advice:

Zelda had read it all with growing anger. Who did he think he was? What did he think she was—a dumb deckhand who wouldn’t know what day it was? She understood the risks. But she also knew that she had to get away, quickly, before the world grew real again. She had wanted to tear up the pages and toss them into the stove, but hadn’t been able to, because of all the useful information, and because—near the end of the letter—he’d remembered the colour of her eyes.

Zelda stepped out into the warm air of the corridor. This part of the hotel was old, and the corridor was more like a long patio, with heavily shuttered arches that opened to the outside. Distant laughter found its way into the dimness, along with the creeping heat. At the end of the passage was a small open lounge, set up with a smoking stand, padded leather chairs and a glass cabinet full of old book. As Zelda passed by she glanced along a line of framed photographs that hung on the wall. They showed scenes of the British Raj: croquet games, polo, picnics and hunting parties. In one of them, a white man in a pith helmet knelt victorious at the front of a crowd of forty Indian beaters, trackers and assistant hunters. There was just the one slain animal—a limp tiger, stained with dark blood.

Finally she came to a wide, carpeted staircase. She descended slowly into the cool five-star air of the lobby. Muted music played into the stillness and potted palms drooped pale, static fronds. There were small groups of people sitting here and there on leather couches set out in facing pairs. Zelda sensed eyes following her as she passed, but she kept her gaze fixed on the reception desk. She wished she was wearing normal clothes—jeans, shirt, boots—but Rye’s letter had recommended light-coloured clothing with long legs and sleeves. Modest and cool; well protected from insects. Dana had dragged out a cream linen suit and Cassie had declared it perfect. But it was too perfect, Zelda realised. She looked like a leftover colonial, or someone who belonged in a Mills & Boon novel.

The man behind the desk looked up as she approached. A badge on his jacket said ‘Day Manager.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Zelda. She always slept well. While others cut ferns and dry grass for camp beds, she could sleep on bare earth, with just a hollow carved out for her hip. ‘I want to change some money,’ she said, glancing up at a clock mounted on the wall. It was nearly midday. The book said you should always change money after 11.00 a.m., otherwise you got the previous day’s rate, plus a loading (proving you were not a serious traveller). ‘I have cheques in American dollars,’ Zelda explained. She pulled several out of her wallet and handed them over.

Slowly and carefully, the man began to fill out forms. Zelda gave up watching him and glanced down at a newspaper spread open on the counter. Noticing that it was in English, she leaned over to look more closely. It was an advertising page, covered with small entries in columns.

‘We are not hoping for snow in June in Delhi,’ one piece read. ‘We would be happy with a smart Punjabi top bracket industrialist. If he lives in Delhi it will be a bonus. The lady is 28, 5'2” petite, sensible and rich. Write Box 91564, Times of India, New Delhi 2.’

‘Suitable match for beautiful Sindhi girl, 32, working Air India, caste no bar. Reply with horoscope indicating place and time of birth.’

‘Very, very attractive Brahmin girl, smart, homely, religious, 34, green card holder, invites alliance from well-settled boy in America/India.’

The manager glanced up, noticing her interest. ‘I am searching for a wife,’ he said solemnly, ‘for my second son. He is a doctor.’

Zelda smiled politely. A tall, slim girl. Age 21. Strong, healthy. Good swimmer. Skilled deckhand, scallop splitter. Can dance.

The manager began counting out wads of money, his fingers flicking easily over the notes. ‘Sign here. And here. And here.’

‘Thanks,’ said Zelda. She rolled up the money and stuffed it into her pocket. ‘Can you tell me, please, how I can get to Rishikesh? As quickly as possible?’

‘Rishikesh?’ the man repeated. A slight frown crept onto his brow. ‘You are travelling alone?’

‘Yes,’ said Zelda. ‘But I’m visiting my mother. She lives there.’ Her quick smile covered a twist of apprehension, a swell of excitement. Visiting my mother. She lives there. It sounded so close, so ordinary, so real.

‘Ah,’ he relaxed again. ‘Then you will have no problems.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Some young girls come to India and they travel alone. Rishikesh is a famous Hindu city, as you know. There are many temples, dharmshalas, ashrams. But there are some bad places there. People take advantage of foreigners.’ A puzzled look came onto his face. ‘But your mother? She has not arranged for your journey?’

‘But I have other friends there, too,’ Zelda added. ‘Friends of the family.’

‘Good, good.’ He seemed reassured. ‘Please excuse me, but what is your standard of travel?’

‘The day train is cheaper, but there is no airconditioning. You cannot reserve a seat, so it will become very crowded. It will take about eight hours. You will get off at Hardwar, and take a taxi to Rishikesh. It is not—’

‘What time does it leave?’ Zelda interrupted. Her foot beat a tense rhythm against the floor.

‘For today it has left already. Tomorrow there is no train. You must wait until the next day after.’

‘Then, you have no choice. The night trains are reserved a long way in advance at this time of the year. So you must take a taxi all the way. It may cost about fifty dollars.’ He paused, waiting for her reaction. She nodded encouragingly. ‘It may take about eight hours.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘You cannot drive at night. So, today you rest. Tomorrow morning, you can leave.’

He nodded gravely. ‘I myself will choose your taxi and driver. I recommend that you leave early, while it is not so hot. Settle your bill tonight, and I will call you at 6 a.m.’

‘Thank you very much.’ Zelda watched his face as he wrote a note in the register. He looked tired, but there were deep laugh lines around his eyes. ‘I hope you find a good wife for your son,’ she said.

He looked up, surprised. ‘There are plenty of good wives,’ he said. ‘That is not a problem. Only my son—he wishes to choose his own.’ He shrugged hopelessly and Zelda found herself shaking her head in sympathy. She searched for something to say.

‘That is what he tells me!’ The man spoke in a tone of mild surprise, then shrugged and waved a hand as if to push the problem away. ‘And what else can I do for you?’

‘Yes, madam.’ He was on duty again. ‘You can take lunch in the coffee shop over there, or there is room service if you wish.’

Zelda nodded, turning to go. ‘You’ll make sure everything is organised with the taxi? It’s very important for me to get there tomorrow.’

The coffee shop was decorated with lime green paper grapevines.They trailed stiffly over striped awnings and white-painted lattice, working overtime to endorse the elegant sign that hung in one corner: The Terrace Patisserie. The tables faced a bank of French windows, opening onto a real terrace covered in real flowering vines. But the outside air shimmered in the fierce heat and the place was deserted.

A waiter shepherded Zelda towards a small table set with heavy silver cutlery and bright green napkins. ‘Is someone coming?’ he asked.

He left her with a menu. Zelda glanced quickly over it without interest. She was hungry but could think of nothing she wanted to eat. Looking up, she noticed a small Indian child standing near her table, staring intently with big, solemn eyes. She was dressed in bright clothes, all brand new, still creased from their packages, and all at least a size too big. Her dress had slipped to one side, baring a thin brown shoulder.

‘Hi,’ Zelda smiled at her, then looked around for her parents. The only other guests were a large blonde woman and a bald man with a red beard. They were engrossed in the menu. Their voices wafted over.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the woman, frowning as she pulled the menu closer. ‘I think an egg and toast would be more healthy.’ She looked up suddenly and called out, ‘Sally? Sally?’ Her eyes searched the room, before settling on the little Indian girl. ‘There you are! Come here, darling. Come on, over here.’ The girl stood where she was, her face torn with confusion.

The child looked from Zelda to the blonde woman and back. A waiter came over and spoke softly to her in a language she appeared to understand. She ran forward and clasped her arms around his leg.

‘Please excuse me, madam,’ he said to Zelda, and bent to peel the thin limbs away.

The blonde woman arrived and swept the child up into her arms. ‘Here we are, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s getting pancakes and ice-cream for you.’ She smiled down at Zelda. ‘Isn’t she adorable?’

‘She’s our new daughter,’ the woman explained, bowing her blonde head over the dark, wispy curls.

‘My name is Amanpree,’ the child chanted, in a singsong voice. ‘My name is four years old. I like play ball. I like help carry water.’

‘Clever girl,’ the woman crooned, her head pulled back, chin pressing into the folds of her neck, as she watched the little face. After a moment she turned to Zelda. ‘I’m Maree,’ she said. ‘That’s my husband Steve. We’re from Australia—Sydney. Where are you from?’

‘Ah, yes. I remember it now, from the weather map on telly.’ Maree put the child down and pointed her towards Steve, who beckoned with a piece of bread, held out like a carrot. ‘We came here to collect our adopted daughter.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I don’t usually talk to strangers but—I’m so happy. We’ve waited years for this. I can’t believe we’re here. With her.’ Her eyes grew shiny with tears.

‘Sacred Heart orphanage,’ said Maree. ‘It was all set up in advance, of course. At first we wanted a baby. But so many are ill, you know. Some even die when you get them home. And then, of course, the older ones get left. No-one wants them. It’s awful for them, watching the little ones being chosen all the time. So anyway, they sent us a photo of Sally—Amanpree. Her mother’s dead. Her father’s in prison. Sally had no-one. We fell in love with her, straightaway.’ Maree leaned down and lowered her voice. ‘Steve’s over the moon. He built a new room on the house, made her a rocking horse, toys—everything.’ She smiled again, letting her joy spill openly. ‘We always wanted to be parents …’ She pulled herself up. ‘I’m sorry—carrying on like this. You’re?’

‘No. Actually, I came here to meet my mother.’ Zelda paused. For a moment she wanted to explain that she didn’t know this mother yet; that she had been only a little girl like Sally Amanpree when her mother went away. Not dying. Just leaving. Leaving her behind, like nothing at all …

‘She lives in India?’ Maree asked. Her blue eyes were bright with friendly interest.

‘She … moves around,’ said Zelda vaguely. ‘Of course I have to make my own life—work and all that. But we try to get together when we can.’

‘Course you do!’ breathed Maree. ‘I bet you can’t wait to see her. And she must be dying to see you.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Zelda smiling brightly. ‘We write, of course. But it’s not the same.’

‘No, it certainly isn’t!’ agreed Maree. ‘Well, all the best to you both. I hope you have a wonderful holiday together.’ She looked up at the sound of cutlery clattering to the floor. The child was standing on a chair, picking up knives and spoons and dropping them one by one. Steve was studying the menu. Maree raised her hands in a gesture of delighted helplessness. ‘Kids!’

Zelda watched her go. She lifted her own menu and studied the lines of writing. They wavered in a thin wash of tears.

‘Sorry, madam, it is afternoon now. Breakfast menu is finished. If you wish pancake, I suggest masala dhosa. Indian pancake.’

Zelda took it from him, staring blankly at the page. There was a message written in a long, looping hand that stretched out across the space:

Zelda folded the paper and closed her hand around it, drawing strength from the old woman’s words. Cassie knew. She understood. During the days at Dana’s house she had listened openly to Zelda’s phone calls—the stumbling explanations, long silences, noiseless weeping.

Zelda would stare at the ceiling, tears running down her cheeks as she answered. ‘It was Drew. My boyfriend. He’s my best friend. I love him. James loved him.’

‘Don’t wait,’ Cassie would say, in a voice as firm as rock. ‘Now’s the time. Begin your journey. You’ll find what you find. There’s nothing else to do.’

Zelda smoothed out the fax and placed it beside her plate. It was a charm, a talisman, that would travel with her. Be brave. Be strong. Be yourself… With you for you always …

Zelda sat in the back of the taxi, with her pack lodged beside her. She wore sunglasses and her Akubra pulled well down as a barrier against the world outside. Safely hidden, she stared out at the wide tree-lined streets. Here and there a late sleeper lay, swathed in cloths, face hidden. Beggars waited patiently, like statues, only just alive. Holy men chanted tranquil prayers. As they drove on, the streets narrowed and stillness gave way to a pattern of bustle and movement. Stallholders stoked up small burners. Students in white shirts gathered in groups to drink tea from clay cups, while ragged children hovered around them.

By seven o’clock the roads were already busy, jostling with loaded oxcarts, bicycles, trucks and old buses with barred windows. Motor scooters weighed down with whole families wove dangerously through the traffic: fathers driving, with one or two children perched in front; the mothers riding side-saddle behind, with the ends of their bright sarees streaming in the wind.

Zelda took out her bottle of iodine water and took a long gulp. As she did so, she glimpsed the driver watching her in the rear-view mirror. He grinned, flashing white teeth.

‘He is a good driver,’ the day manager had said. ‘We have chosen him specially. Actually, he is a relative of mine. He speaks good English. The money you have paid is the full fare, but if you like you may give him a tip. But no more than twenty or thirty rupees.’ He had paused to look sternly at the driver. ‘He will take you to the Holy Ganges Hotel in Rishikesh. Now you relax please, and enjoy your journey …’

After nearly an hour had passed, Zelda noticed that the road was widening again. Soon the city thinned out, giving way to farmland and small villages shaded by leafy trees. The air was hot and dusty, but smelled strangely sweet. They overtook a line of trucks laden with green cane.

They passed whole fields of heavy-headed sunflowers, brown faces fringed with yellow, all turned towards the climbing sun. Then there were squares of brown, ploughed earth, marked with splashes of hot pink, turquoise, red and amber—peasant women in bright skirts and shawls. They hovered in the fields, like small flocks of exotic birds.

Around mid-morning the driver pulled in at a small roadside cafe. ‘Inside?’ he pointed. ‘Tea. Cold drink. Toilet.’

Zelda nodded. She fought with the catch on the door and climbed stiffly out. Her clothes were layered with dust and fused to her sweaty skin. Faces, eyes and long-limbed bodies appeared noiselessly and hovered around her. She paused, glancing back at her pack inside on the seat.

‘Okay, no problem,’ said the driver. He pointed at a small boy who had climbed onto the bumper bar. ‘He will take care.’

‘Thanks,’ said Zelda. She headed for the cafe, aware of the many lingering stares stretching after her.

Inside the cafe it was dim, but not much cooler. A ceiling fan revolved lazily, keeping the flies moving. Behind the counter stood an old man in a faded pink turban. It was wound loosely and sat on his head in a precarious pile. He waved his hand towards a short line of dusty bottles. ‘Limca? Thums Up? Soda?’

‘You come from?’ A voice came from behind her. She turned to face a young dark-skinned man. His eyes latched onto hers. They were almost black.

Zelda smiled politely. Wiping the top of the soft drink bottle with the sleeve of her jacket, she began to drink down the sweet yellow fizz. She turned to head back to the car.

‘Mem-sahib! Mem-sahib!’ The old man called out urgently from behind the counter. ‘No. No.’

Zelda stopped. He was pointing at the soft drink and shaking his head. She frowned, puzzled, and reached in her pocket for some more money.

‘Bottle. No take,’ said the young man helpfully. Their eyes met again. This time he slid them carefully down to Zelda’s breasts, and back. She swallowed the drink quickly and put the bottle down on the counter.

‘Yes-my-friend …’ the man called after her as she walked away. Laughter followed her out into the dusty heat.

The eight-hour journey became ten, somehow, without anything particular going wrong.

The driver just wobbled his head on his shoulders, noncommittal. ‘It is far. Delhi. Rish’kesh. Far. But please, enjoy your trip.’ He spread his hands, abandoning the wheel. ‘You are recreating—yes?’

Finally, forest thinned again into fields and buildings cropped up along the sides of the road.

‘Rish’kesh coming,’ the driver announced. Then, without warning, he swung off the road into a wide tree-lined driveway.

The Holy Ganges Hotel was like an office block with a decorated entrance. Its walls were drab yellow and streaked with dust. Rows of windows gazed blearily down. Faded pots of tired cacti stood at the edges of a set of wide stairs that led up to two glass doors.

The taxi driver took Zelda’s money with a nod and motioned her away from the car. ‘Boy will bring,’ he said, pointing inside.

‘No, it’s okay, I can manage,’ said Zelda. She dragged out her pack by one strap and heaved it up onto her shoulders. ‘Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ She sensed him gazing after her as she climbed the steps. Always use a porter. Rye’s words came back to her. It’s mean not to. They need the work. She glanced awkwardly behind her, and caught sight of a boy running towards the car. He stopped still, his thin arms dangling, as he stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. She looked quickly away and hurried on.

The lobby was deserted. She put down her pack and stood still for a moment, letting the cooler air soothe her sticky skin. Then she went to stand by a wide counter, bathed in harsh blue light shed by a bank of fluorescent tubes. A big black phone stood alone on the counter. As if in response to her, it began to ring. No-one came. It rang on and on. Just as it stopped, a man rushed in. He looked from Zelda to the phone, as if surprised that she had not picked it up.

‘Yes, mem-sahib. We are expecting you. Yesterday. But no problem.’ He lifted a large book onto the counter and opened it. ‘I will arrange your room. First you must register as a Foreign Guest. Passport please.’ He glanced up. His eyes travelled quickly over her face. ‘You have come from Delhi,’ he stated. ‘You are tired.’

He slammed his hand down on a bell and looked up expectantly. The boy from outside appeared, arms still dangling. The man handed him a key hung on a large brass ball. He glanced at Zelda. ‘Special room, only for you. River view.’

Zelda stood in the shower, letting water run over her face. Remembering Rye’s warnings, she kept her mouth tightly closed, imagining amoebas swimming around like little fish, looking for a chance to break in. The hotel soap was red, small, hard and smelled of the school washroom. She scrubbed herself all over, then turned off the water and stepped back out into the warm air. She paused by the phone and dialled the number given for room service.

While it rang she pictured herself, standing there. Zelda in India. Wrapped in a towel like an American actress …

‘Yes,’ she said coolly. ‘Room 12 here. Could you send someone up with a bottle of Limca, please? Thank you.’ She paused with the receiver in her hand, then reached for her passport wallet and wriggled out a small white business card. Mr Ranjit Saha, it said. 97 Veer Bhadra Road, Rishikesh 249201 Phone 516. She dialled the numbers quickly, to avoid preparing a speech. Instead, she recalled Rye’s note: Ranjit’s an old family friend and knows everyone. Call him when you arrive.

Her head jolted up as a voice came onto the line. ‘Hello? Hello?’ She cut into a long line of foreign words. ‘Is Mr Ranjit Saha there please?’

‘I’m sorry. Ranjit Saha is not at home, madam. Please ring tomorrow. Good evening.’

Zelda gripped the receiver with clammy hands. Tomorrow. It felt like a week away. She couldn’t bear just to wait, doing nothing, now that she was here. But there was no other plan, no lead to follow; no choice but to let the time drag by.

She sat down on the bed and looked around her. There was nothing of India in this hotel room either, unless you counted a faded poster of a Bengal tiger. It gazed bleakly over icons of Western living: a laminex dressing table, brocade bedspread, fringed lampshade. But the carpet was stained, the walls were soiled above the bedhead, and loose wires poked from the side of the lamp.

‘Filed from Rishikesh, India.’ Zelda saw the words in print, small and black against newsprint yellowed with years.

‘LIBERTY’ FINDS NEW FOLLOWING.

FILED FROM RISHIKESH, INDIA.

A decade after the American ballet
superstar vanished amid rumours of

She knew every word, every letter. She could see the ragged shape of the torn-out piece of newspaper. A big, cornerless continent.

She crossed to the window and looked down over a patch of sparse garden, dotted with bright pink flowers. By leaning out she could just see a bit of the river, almost lost in a white haze. The shadows were soft and long, the daylight fading.

She looked up at a knock on the door. Quickly dragging on some clothes, she opened it slowly. A young man in a maroon uniform stood there smiling.

‘I am send someone with Limca.’ He eased past her, carrying a tray and a bottle.

‘Thank you,’ said Zelda. She signed the tab and handed him a tip. Always tip, Rye’s letter had said. Just a rupee or two. If you don’t, things will stop happening.

The man nodded. ‘I’m coming back,’ he said brightly. ‘Bring glass and open bottle.’

The dining room was like a big abandoned theatre, looking out through a bank of windows onto a wide stage set with mythic props: hills painted in soft mounds against a pastel sunset sky; and a river—a wide, still swathe of pure spun silver, edged with mist. The holy Ganges.

Zelda walked past rows of empty tables until she came to the window. There she leaned her head against the warm smooth glass and gazed out at the scene through a thick cloud of mosquitoes that clustered around an outside light.

While she watched, a tall orange-robed man emerged from the shadowy garden and approached the river’s edge. In his hands he held a light—a small yellow flame. It burned steadily in the still air, only wavering as he began to swing it slowly from side to side. He lifted his face towards the last glow of the sinking sun and began to sing. His voice came through the glass like a distant echo. Zelda tried to find words in the sounds, but there was nothing she could name.

‘It is puja, the time of blessing.’ A voice came from behind her, close and soft. Zelda turned to face a young Indian woman dressed in a bright silk saree. ‘It takes place at dawn and sunset,’ the woman continued. She spoke with a slight American accent. ‘He is the hotel priest, holy man. He offers prasad, the blessing, on behalf of everyone here.’

The woman bowed her head, as if accepting the compliment for herself. Then they both watched in silence while the priest scattered yellow flowers into the river. The ragged heads dipped and twirled as the waters carried them away.

‘Wait,’ Zelda said suddenly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. ‘I’d just like to ask you something.’

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly and shrugged. Zelda carefully unfolded her newspaper cutting and pointed at Ellen’s face. ‘I’m looking for this person.’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Zelda. ‘She was when this was taken, but it was twelve years ago.’

The woman frowned. ‘Foreigners come here to stay in the ashrams. But most don’t stay long, they just come and look, and go. There are exceptions of course. Some stay for a while. Some even take sannyas.’ She bent over the photograph to look more closely.

‘Sannyas …’ Zelda repeated. She cast her mind back over the books on India she had read in Dana’s house, and the long discussions they’d had—speculation about Ellen, led by Dana and Cassie.

‘It was a leftover of the hippy thing.’ Dana felt sure. ‘She’d have hung out there for a bit, and then moved on. I bet she’s been back in the States for years.’

Cassie disagreed. ‘If she was there, she’d have been discovered for sure. Her face was so well known. I think Zelda’s right—India’s the place. But what do they mean by ‘Liberty finds new following”? It sounds political, or religious. Or philanthropic perhaps—doing good works, helping the poor…’

The discussions always finished up in the same place, with Cassie shrugging her shoulders and spreading her hands. ‘Whatever happens, it’s a wonderful adventure. Remember that, Zelda. In the end, it counts for a lot.’

The Indian woman tilted the photograph towards better light, then looked up with a frown. ‘Why is your sister in the newspaper?’ she asked. ‘Has she done something? Against the law?’

Zelda chewed at the side of her finger. She offered no reply. Faint drumming and singing could be heard in the distance. Nearby, metal clashed behind the doors to the kitchen.

The woman carried the photograph over to a lamp. Zelda followed her, waiting in silence for her to speak.

‘When you take sannyas, you give up your worldly life forever,’ the woman said finally. ‘You follow the spiritual path. Some foreigners have achieved it. But—not her, I think.’

The woman pointed a long, slim finger at a corner of the photograph. ‘This bit of her dress. It’s made of Indian cloth, but it’s rich cloth. It looks like Benares silk. The sannyasins all wear simple handloom khadi.’

‘Well, there must be other things that foreigners stay here and do.’ Zelda’s voice quavered.

‘Perhaps,’ the woman answered. ‘Of course, I don’t live here in Rishikesh. I’m only visiting my sister.’

‘First, in the morning, go down to the bathing ghats. Everyone goes there for puja. You may see her, if she’s here. If she is devout.’ She looked away, as a waiter arrived with a menu. He bowed his head at the two women, then cast his eye gravely over the empty dining room. He chose a seat at the end of a long table and motioned Zelda towards it.

‘Bon appetit!’ The woman smiled and swept away, trailing bright silk over her elbow.

Zelda looked around the room. All the tables were long, as if people usually came here in large parties. Like at the island golf club, where all the locals used to meet, laughing and talking over porterhouse steak and tinned mushrooms in butter sauce. Drew, Lizzie and Sharn—even James, sometimes.

James. Dad. His face rose before her. Strong, lean, tanned. Wet with seaspray. Windblown hair standing up like a wild crown. She closed her eyes on rising tears. That was the old James, the one she knew and loved so much. She tried to hang onto him, but the questions began piling up, building into a dark cloud of confusion and anger. He’d said Ellen was dead. Why? How could he? What right did he have? Zelda opened the menu and studied the foreign words: Puri bhaji. Kashmiri dum alu. Raita dahi. But the questions kept coming. Why? For so many years. While Ellen was alive. Her own mother …

Zelda pictured the Ellen and baby photograph, trying to reach back towards it, through the years. She’d been nearly four years old when Ellen left. Quite big. Somewhere, there should be memories of the things they’d done together; pictures from her own head. But there weren’t. Over the years she had tried many times to uncover some deep-hidden remnant. All she ever found was a strange, unsettled feeling. A sense of something that she wanted, yet pulled away from. It was probably the idea of someone being dead, she thought, mixed with them being your mother, once alive. But it had always bothered her that there was nothing more. A few years ago she had talked to Lizzie about it—after all, Lizzie had been there when Ellen and Zelda were together, and when Ellen had disappeared.

‘You missed her so much,’ Lizzie had explained. ‘I reckon you just blocked out your memories. And James wanted you to forget her, too.’ She had paused, frowning. ‘He said no-one was to talk to you about her. I argued with him—it didn’t seem right, or healthy, to me. But he was grieving, too.’ The shadow of a smile had softened Lizzie’s lips. ‘ “You be her mother,” he said to me. “It’s what Ellen would have wanted.” ’

Zelda closed her eyes, torn between warmth and pain. Lizzie had done and had given so much. And James too—he had tried to be everything his daughter needed. But still, an empty space had opened up behind her, yawning wider with the passing years. A ragged hole, letting in cold winds of doubt and discontent. She felt like a cutout figure with nothing but blank space behind her. Well, almost nothing—there were just a few meagre clues; scraps gathered here and there, saved up like the relics of a saint …

The waiter, hovering at her elbow, broke into Zelda’s thoughts. She pointed quickly at a couple of dishes on the menu and waited while he wandered towards the kitchen. Then she returned to Ellen, running over her collection of clues and facts—all the things she had ever been told.

Killed in a car accident on the mainland. (She was away shopping, but James didn’t know what she’d bought. ‘Are you sure?’ Zelda had asked, years later, hoping for a clue to some last thought. A cuddly toy, a puzzle, a little four-year-old’s dress?)

Another time, he’d added that she’d been buried there, on the mainland. He’d wanted to get it all over with as soon as possible. He wasn’t interested in funerals and gravestones— Ellen’s memory would live on in the hearts of those who loved her.

There was only one thing more: a piece of paper. A death certificate. But that had only come out when Drew’s grandma died in her bed, ten years ago.

‘What about Mum?’ Zelda had asked James. ‘Where’s her certificate? Drew says everyone has to have one. Can I see it?’

Silence. Then a long breath in, James’s eyes widening. ‘Sure. Sure you can. Not here, not now. But I’ll—get a copy of it for you.’ As he spoke, his words began to come quickly, tumbling out. ‘Your own photocopy that you can keep. Because I do understand, Zelda. You need to know, to see.’

Cause of Death: Exsanguination. Following ruptured spleen, perforated bowel, uncontrolled haemorrhage. Due to Motor Vehicle Accident.

Zelda had read the words over and over. Then raised her face, blank with horror, sickness rising inside her. Exsanguination. It sounded like something dark and final, carried out by the Devil.

He’d opened a bottle of bourbon and stared out of the window as he slopped some into a glass. It was a sign that the talking was over. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

Zelda stared down at her hands, fiddling with the cutlery laid out on the white tablecloth. ‘Holy Ganges Hotel’ stamped on the handles.

So many lies made up over years and carefully preserved. Even a fake death certificate. Why? Was it so important that Ellen did not exist? Or was it just something begun in anger or pain; something that, once born, had to continue. Deceit enslaving truth forever …

‘Tell me about Ellen’s family,’ Zelda remembered asking one Christmas, summoning her courage to push through James’s wall of silence.

‘What do you mean?’ he responded, with a puzzled frown as though her words made no sense.

Zelda fixed her eyes on James, refusing to look away. Finally he was forced to speak.

James sighed. ‘Well, Ellen was an only child. Her mother, Margaret, was divorced soon after Ellen was born.’ He looked down at his book, indicating that the conversation was over.

‘No. I told you. Only a few friends came to the wedding. No family. Especially not her.’

‘I want to know,’ Zelda urged him. ‘I’m not a child any more. I’m nearly sixteen.’

James weighed up his thoughts behind lowered eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said finally, ‘you want to know. I’ll tell you.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Then you’ll see—delving into family history is a murky business and best left alone. Ellen would never face it, but the fact is her mother was a mean, twisted old bitch. Rich, selfish and all screwed up about the fact that her husband walked out and left her with a baby to bring up alone.’

‘I guess,’ Zelda said carefully, ‘it would have been very hard for her.’

James snorted. ‘Sure. But pretty tough for her husband too, trying to live with a baby in the house, all the time knowing it wasn’t his. No, sir. This baby was begun while he was away.’

‘That’s right,’ James continued. ‘The outcome, you might say, of his wife’s adultery. And with his best friend!’ James shook his head slowly. ‘A double betrayal, you see … The story goes that he couldn’t stand the sight of the baby because he loved his wife so much. He just couldn’t bear it, so he left and never came back. Margaret blamed the baby—Ellen—of course.’ In the quiet, the fire hissed and spat. ‘It’s sad and ugly. I told you.’

James leaned across the table to pour himself a drink, glass chinking glass. ‘Don’t you worry about that, Zel.’ His voice softened. ‘She didn’t know. I only found out a couple of years ago. Margaret died in some nursing home. Apparently she made them promise to send her papers to her long-lost daughter. They traced us somehow. Once upon a time you could cover your tracks, but that was before computers took over. Still caused them a heap of trouble, and all for nothing—just a pile of old letters.’ He paused, frowning thoughtfully, then stood up and went into his bedroom. He returned with an envelope. ‘And there was this photo,’ he said, handing it over. ‘You can have it, seeing you’re so interested.’

Zelda opened the envelope and slid out the print. Her eyes met dark bright eyes that matched her own. She didn’t need to ask.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘Her real father. My… grandfather.’ The words felt strange on her tongue.

‘Harlan,’ stated James, with a faint sneer in his voice. ‘His name’s on the back.’

‘He looks like me—us,’ said Zelda, her eyes travelling the man’s face, over and over.

James made no reply. ‘Typical Margaret,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘That’d be her though. Couldn’t bear to die without one last mean act. And dressing it up into a pile of excuses, and all that “I’m really sorry” crap.’ He laughed bleakly and spread his hands. ‘How can you be sorry for being a total bitch for a whole lifetime! And what’s the point anyway? Dumping it all on Ellen, when they’d had nothing to do with each other for years. He stared at his hands, clenched into angry fists.

‘Why didn’t they?’ Zelda asked. She made her voice light and casual, hoping James would keep talking, without noticing her urgency.

‘Oh, Ellen went away to school. They grew apart I guess. That’s a dancer’s life. No room for people.’ James glanced around the hut, his gaze lingering on the window that looked down towards the sea. ‘That’s why we had to come here. Best thing I ever did.’

Plates of food slid onto the table, steaming and colourful on shiny stainless steel. Zelda barely noticed them. She gazed out at the darkening river. Silent. Calm. Holy Mother.

What had it meant to Ellen, she wondered, to be caught up in such a sad, dark story? And what would it mean to her, now, to learn the truth of what lay behind it? She thought of Harlan’s photo—the laughing man—held safely in her bag beside her cheques and passport. When I find her, she thought, I’ll tell her, show her.

She smiled, imagining the lost daughter appearing from nowhere. Filling in the gaps in Ellen’s own past—the murky events that had placed their mark on her life. Bringing news of an unknown father. And telling of a mother who was dead, but who had wanted to say she was sorry …

For a long time Zelda sat with her thoughts, watching the mist fall like a layer of secrecy over the water. The deep, eternal river.

PART FOUR

Chapter 25