CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘I WAS SO sure he would be here,’ the young woman repeated. Standing at the window, she was in a state of shock. ‘I thought I’d surprise him. And now … it never occurred to me … What shall I do? I don’t know what to do.’

She stopped. The wind had fallen and it was raining hard. Beside her, Paul saw the taxi pull up in the street three floors below and Helen move quickly from the door to climb in, closing her umbrella as she did so.

‘I feel so stupid!’ the young woman said. ‘I was so excited about coming.’

They had tried calling John’s phone but it was turned off. She had sent him any number of messages to say she was here. He would see them as soon as he turned on.

She sat down. ‘I thought it would prove to him I cared. I thought he’d be so happy.’

‘That’s a big step,’ Paul agreed, ‘getting on a plane to India.’

The American looked at her. She was a curious creature, almost too slim and with an odd abruptness to her movements, as if shifting quickly from one pose to the next. Then she was still, but with the tension of a cat about to spring. Above tight jeans and a few inches of bare waist, her breasts were incongruously large, more than filling a tight tee-shirt. She seemed painfully self-conscious. Paul smiled.

‘I hope I haven’t frightened Mrs James,’ she said.

‘I think it would take a bit more than that,’ he assured her. ‘She’s a tough lady.’

It was now more than an hour since the doorbell had rung. In a matter of seconds Helen had switched from extreme mental ferment to the coolest practicality. Paul liked that.

‘It will be Kulwant,’ she had said, pushing her arms into a bathrobe. ‘Tell him not to do something and you can be sure he’ll do it.’

‘Want me to disappear?’ Twice divorced, Paul was used to the farce of adulterous affairs. He had pushed girls under beds and once been caught himself, hiding in a wardrobe.

‘Whatever for?’ Helen asked, already tightening the cord round her waist. She couldn’t care less what people thought.

Then, opening the front door she found a young woman with a backpack and a Boots plastic bag.

‘Are you Mrs James?’ the girl asked. ‘I’m Elaine Harley, John’s girlfriend.’

Paul had stopped at the passage door to watch the scene. There was something gently skewed about the girl’s face, as if she were speaking from one side of her mouth. She had light freckles on milky skin and a thin nose that wasn’t quite straight. Helen was polite and warm. ‘Oh, how wonderful! Yes, Elaine! Do come in!’

She made the girl sit down. She brought her water from the fridge. She told her she must be tired. ‘What a marvellous surprise! Heavens. John spoke so much about you when he came in January. I had no idea you would be visiting.’

Elaine’s smiles froze: ‘But isn’t he here?’ She looked around the apartment.

Helen had just sat down: ‘Who? John?’ She saw the girl’s face. ‘No. Should he be?’

Elaine trembled. ‘He isn’t here? Has he gone travelling somewhere?’

‘John is in London, isn’t he?’ Helen asked. ‘That’s the last I heard.’

‘Oh.’ The girl’s voice faltered. ‘Oh God …’ It was a few moments before she could bring herself to explain. One hand came up and tugged an ear lobe. John had gone off ten days ago, she eventually said. ‘Quite suddenly. He left a note saying he was going to India. I was sure he meant here.’

‘No, not at all.’

Helen didn’t seem thrown, Paul noticed, by the younger woman’s anxiety, nor by her son’s odd behaviour. Her mood hardly changed at all. She was welcoming, but detached. ‘I haven’t heard from John for weeks.’ She paused. ‘Obviously there’s been some misunderstanding. Are you sure you don’t want to lie down? You must be exhausted.’

‘But he left his flat, and his place at the lab!’ The girl was frightened. ‘That’s everything he had. You must be in touch with him.’

She stared at Helen as if the older woman might have simply forgotten that her son was in Delhi, or even in another part of the building.

‘I’m afraid not, John never tells me anything. This really is a muddle. Are you really telling me you came out here on purpose to find him?’ But now Helen was looking at her watch. ‘Oh dear, and I’m afraid I’ll have to be going to the clinic soon. I’m on night duty.’

Elaine was baffled. Helen made tea. She was clearly finding it difficult to give the girl the proper attention.

‘Perhaps it’s just a question of a young man’s haring off,’ she suggested vaguely returning from kitchen to sitting room, ‘feeling he needed experience, you know?’ Men did that kind of thing, she said, and John was notoriously short of experience. ‘All he’s ever done is study.’

Elaine sat in silence, unable to take it in.

‘John never actually worked for money in his life,’ Helen went on, pouring tea. She spoke automatically, evidently repeating things thought and said a thousand times. ‘I hope he doesn’t owe you anything, does he, dear? Perhaps saying he was going to India was just … I don’t know … an excuse.’ Helen frowned. ‘After all, why would John come to India? He has no reason to be here.’ She got up and bustled about packing her work bag. Without looking at Elaine, she asked: ‘Had you been arguing perhaps?’

The girl admitted they had a bit. ‘He was upset that I was so busy. With rehearsals, you know. I’m in a play. It’s opening in a couple of weeks. He wanted me to be there every evening, but this was my first chance to really do anything.’

‘John was always a demanding child,’ Helen agreed. ‘By the way, this is Paul,’ she finally remembered to introduce him. Paul was still on his feet at the doorway to the bedrooms.

‘Paul is staying here with me at the moment. He’s researching a book about my husband, who as you know …’

Helen stopped and smiled as if the sentence was already complete.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Elaine said. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she told the bulky man who now came towards her with a gallant little bow. After a pause, the girl said ‘John was very upset. Especially that he hadn’t had time to see him before it happened.’

‘See who?’ Helen frowned.

‘Sorry, his dad, before he died, I mean. He was very … that’s why when I saw this note, about him coming to India, I thought he must want to spend some time with you. He said you hadn’t had much time to talk when he came over.’

‘He was only able to get away for two or three days,’ Helen said.

Paul watched her.

‘Oh heavens,’ she hurried on, ‘I’ll have to be getting dressed. I’m afraid we’re very short-staffed these days. I’ll be late.’

For a moment it crossed Paul’s mind that Helen must know where her son was but didn’t want to tell the girl for some reason. Otherwise how could she be so unconcerned about his disappearance? Unless she was still locked up in the desperate mood of half an hour before? Either way, he admired her for the decision to go to work anyway. Helen doesn’t allow things to overwhelm her, he thought. Other women he knew would have been frantic.

‘If I call him with my phone,’ Elaine was saying, ‘perhaps he won’t answer. He hasn’t been answering my messages. But maybe if someone else tried …’

‘Give me the number,’ Paul offered.

‘Yes, have a go,’ Helen said, buckling on a belt. ‘He’s probably just off on his own somewhere.’ She picked up her shoes by the door.

Paul keyed the UK number into his own phone and called it. He waited through a crackle of radio beacons searching for connections, then got a recorded voice.

‘He’s switched off.’

Helen seemed neither surprised nor disappointed, perhaps not even interested. She picked up the house phone and called a cab. Evidently eager to be alone, she stood smiling falsely at them while she spoke in Hindi, then closed the call, moved to the sofa and perched on a cushion opposite the girl.

‘Elaine, dear …’

Unexpectedly, she reached across the space between them, took the younger woman’s hands and smiled more warmly. ‘Elaine, I’m sure this is just some kind of misunderstanding or communication breakdown. You know?’ It was the voice she used for reassuring patients as she left the ward at the end of the day.

‘John really was so enthusiastic about you when he was here. He was telling me what a wonderful actress you are and how happy he was to be with you and I was happy for him, of course. Now, do you have anywhere to stay the night? We’re rather tight for space in the flat here, I’m afraid.’

Elaine hadn’t arranged anything. The plane had been delayed for hours, circling and circling because of the weather. She had been so sure John would be here.

‘Never mind. So, let’s see, for tonight Paul will sort you out and find you a hotel, won’t you Paul?’

‘No problem,’ Paul said promptly.

‘And then tomorrow we’ll have a big think what’s to be done and how we can find out where John is for you.’ Now Helen sounded as though she were speaking to a young child.

‘Thanks,’ Elaine muttered.

Upright in a white dress, Helen glanced around to see if she had forgotten anything. Yes, her umbrella. ‘The taxis only have to come from round the corner,’ she said, ‘I’d better rush.’

Paul and Elaine were left with a half a pot of tea to drink. They stood at the window watching the car pull away.

‘I know she’s very committed to her work,’ Elaine eventually said. She sat at the table and stared at her fingers. ‘John admires her really a lot. He’s always telling me stories about her.’

‘She’s a very remarkable woman,’ Paul agreed. ‘And Albert James was a remarkable man.’ He felt for a moment that he had become a sort of acolyte. The Jameses were a religion.

‘I did try to read a book of his. John gave me something. But it seemed rather difficult.’

‘Depends which,’ Paul said. ‘The early ones are easier. As with most authors.’

He found it strange now that Helen had mentioned his researching Albert’s biography when in fact he had told her three or four times that he wasn’t. ‘Actually,’ he suddenly felt the need to say, ‘I’ve given up the idea of writing about him. I’m going to do a year or two of aid work. Helen’s finding something for me.’ He hesitated, wondering why he was explaining this. ‘Maybe India has that effect on people.’ He half laughed. ‘Beware.’

Elaine hadn’t listened. ‘Can you try his number again?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps he’s switched on.’

Paul took his phone out and pressed to repeat the last call. There was still no response.

‘Oh I can’t understand it!’ she bounced to her feet again. ‘He always keeps his phone on, always, even when he’s asleep. He loves getting messages. Unless maybe he’s lost it.’ One hand clutched in her hair, she hurried to the window, as if to catch sight of her boyfriend in the street. ‘I was so sure he’d be here. How can he disappear like this?’

‘You thought he’d come to see his mother?’

‘He’s been a bit weird since his dad died. I don’t know. I was sure he’d come back here. He kept talking about his mother.’

Paul didn’t know what to say. He was aware that he must be coming across to her as a friendly avuncular figure and at the same time he wondered if he really fitted that description. The more distracted the girl was, the more animal and attractive she became.

Elaine turned, hesitated, then went back to the window. But the drama of the situation released her from ordinary inhibition. Quietly she said: ‘Actually, he’d got it into his head I was seeing someone else. I mean, that was part of it. It was all muddled.’

‘Ah,’ Paul said.

‘It was stupid. I thought he’d come out here, sort of to punish me. Like a test. That’s why I came.’

‘We’d better find you a hotel. Don’t you think?’

As he was speaking, a phone struck up the Marseillaise. It was Elaine’s. Since it was lying on the sofa, Paul picked it up and handed it to her as she hurried across the room. She looked at the screen. A frown puckered her lips; she went back to the window and answered in a low voice, her face averted: ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t speak now.’ It was a different voice from the one Paul had heard so far, efficient and defensive.

Elaine closed the call and stood looking out at the rain. ‘Is this the monsoon, then?’

‘Too early,’ Paul said. ‘You get these little rehearsals, but the heat will be back, I’m afraid. Let’s see if we can get you in at the India International Centre. It’s close by and there should be rooms. This isn’t a tourist month.’

All the same they needed a cab. Paul phoned. Elaine stood, texting a message. She looked up. ‘Is it expensive?’ she asked. Speaking to the taxi company, he smiled and shook his head.

They ate in the dining room of the International Centre. Paul had waited a half-hour and more in reception while Elaine checked in and went to her room. He had felt very sure of himself earlier in the afternoon, sure of a major change in his life. Now he was on edge, he needed to think, but the girl was alone and it would be unkind to leave her to her own devices. Helen wouldn’t want that, he decided.

Paul studied his heavy form in the reflection of the glass door. There was the familiar unfamiliarity of the mirrored face: that strange, plump, rather debonair man! His hair was greying just a little at the temples but still thick, still virile. It will be good to try this different life in Helen’s company, he muttered. He liked the way the older woman’s constant irony challenged him. He would enjoy proving to her that he could handle harsh conditions. I will lose weight. Perhaps at some unconscious level, it suddenly occurred to Paul, what had most drawn him to Albert James’s ideas was the implicit invitation to professional suicide: convinced, as James clearly was, that journalism’s interminable assertiveness was ugly, that it was futile seeking to sway people’s minds, to convince them of this and that, you could relax and give up. Paul was aware that he always tried very hard to persuade people, in professional matters and private. He was aware, too, of trying to seduce readers when he wrote. He needed them to succumb to his way of seeing things. And he was ambitious. In the end, his whole life had been an attempt to put himself forward by convincing people of things. It didn’t really matter what things. That was what had so impressed him about Gandhi, the man’s ability to convince people. And that was what James no doubt hated about him. If you free yourself from that compulsion, Paul suddenly thought, if you escape from that need to cajole and convince and seduce, what is left afterwards will be you, your true self.

The lobby of the International Centre was quiet this evening and the PC under the stairs was free. Paul remembered it from years before when he’d been working for the Globe; the connection was slow and the keyboard sticky. He remembered having to wait while others hogged the thing. The elderly receptionist watched politely while the American paced and hovered in his damp jacket.

‘No problem if you want to get online, sir,’ she eventually suggested. She was clipping bits of paper together.

‘I’m not actually staying at the Centre,’ Paul told her.

‘That’s no problem, sir, if you are waiting for a guest.’

Paul went to the machine but hesitated. Amy would have written of course. He had always had a great time with Amy, but there was no question of asking her to come and join him in Bihar.

Still hesitating, Paul found his cigarettes and lit up. Albert James had thought every action determining and potentially fatal: every step a person took was irreversible, every experience was carved in stone. In my case, relationships are just water off a duck’s back, Paul thought. He inhaled deeply. Compulsive though it might be, no one would ever persuade him to stop smoking.

There was an ashtray on a fancy iron stand beside the typing stool. Paul turned the cigarette round gently to free the burning tip. He liked doing that. You could always write to your mother, he chuckled, tell your mum that her bad boy is going to do some charity work. That would cheer the old girl up! But why was it still important what his parents thought? At my age! Or was everyone, he wondered, just waiting for a chance to reverse roles and shout how good they’d been?

Very conscious of being the older man waiting for a pretty younger woman in a hotel lobby, Paul smiled with half of his mouth. For a moment, standing at the bottom of the stairs by the computer screen, he had an impression of himself as exactly poised between his old, confident, hard-working, womanising self and someone entirely cut loose and ascetic: a slimmer, calmer, quieter, no doubt better Paul, in a muddy village, dutifully doing what Helen James told him to do, taking this remarkable woman as his model, learning from her vast experience. He would wash people who were sick. He would smell their vomit and shit. Later you can write about it, he told himself more candidly; then your work will have an authenticity it has never really had perhaps. Then they will have to take you seriously. He had always been thought of as a journeyman, an opportunist. After an experience like this he would be more convincing.

Paul looked at his watch and wondered if Elaine was showering or changing into nicer clothes. He rather liked the childish way she tugged at an ear, and that intense twist on her lips when she had jabbed out a text message. Deciding at last to sit down at the computer, he tried to imagine the economic consequences if he earned no money for a whole year.

The screen was the old cathode variety. Paul called up Gmail and had just typed in his address and password when there came a squeak of rubber soles hurrying down the cement stairs.

‘Sorry to be so long.’

‘No problem.’

It was clear at a glance that much of Elaine’s time must have been spent trying to freshen her face after tears. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, but with trainers.

‘Feeling better?’ Paul asked encouragingly, then shouted, ‘Aaaagh, forty-three messages, not possible!’

‘If you want to finish your work, I’ll read something,’ she offered.

Scrolling down, Paul saw Amy’s name a half-dozen times.

‘We’d be here till tomorrow,’ he said. He logged off. ‘Let’s eat.’

As can happen in India, the Centre’s dining room was so fiercely air-conditioned they both feared they would freeze. So while they waited for the food they’d ordered Elaine went back to her room for a jacket. When she returned, not only the jacket was new, but she was wearing perfume too. A sweet, girly perfume, Paul noticed. ‘And I brought a scarf for you,’ she said smiling. She handed him a square of pink silk. The determination to be cheerful only made her anxiety more obvious.

‘I’m not sure this will be good for my reputation,’ Paul laughed, gamely wrapping the scarf round his neck. The air was definitely chilly.

‘And what is your reputation?’

‘Hmm, probably best if I don’t tell.’

‘The pink goes pretty well with the brown shirt,’ Elaine told him. ‘They suit.’

‘Pretty’s the word, I’m afraid,’ he said tying a knot. He grimaced. ‘Still, I suppose the effeminate look is in these days.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You don’t look effeminate at all,’ she said. Then a message beeped on her phone. She read it and again hastened to answer with small quick fingers. Paul saw that the nails were bitten right down. She held the phone up to her face with two hands.

After the food arrived, chewing the first mouthful, she asked: ‘Tell me about being a writer, then, Paul.’ She used his name rather determinedly, as if she was afraid she might forget it. ‘I’ve never met a writer before. Tell me about this book about John’s dad.’

‘I thought I’d said, I’ve decided not to do it,’ Paul said.

‘Oh, right.’ She was pensive again. ‘John will be disappointed.’

‘Anyway, there’s precious little one can say about being a writer. In the end one form of megalomania is much like another.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She frowned, apparently eager for a serious debate.

‘Oh, people looking for celebrity,’ he shrugged. ‘Writers, actors, we’re all the same.’

‘I don’t think so at all,’ she protested. ‘The actors I know—’

Suddenly she looked down at her plate and her cheeks stiffened as if her tongue had found something unpleasant in her mouth. ‘Actually, I’ve just given up a project too.’

Paul waited while she ate another mouthful. He was not unfamiliar with the picture of a young woman going through a crisis. In the past such girls had been easy prey; they grabbed at anyone who would bolster their self-esteem.

‘I walked out of rehearsals two days ago.’ Elaine’s voice was steady but brittle. ‘It was going to be my first play. My big ambition.’

He watched her. ‘So why did you do that?’

Again Elaine tugged at an ear, head cocked to one side. She seemed unaware how childish the gesture was. ‘We’d been rehearsing for months and I still couldn’t do anything right. At least as the director saw it. I suppose it got to the point where I couldn’t take any more criticism.’ She gave a forced smile. ‘So, I lost my boyfriend and my job in the same week. How about that?’

‘Double whammy,’ Paul agreed.

‘He said I was never really the part, I was just playing it. Just mimicking. He thought people wouldn’t be able to identify, as if I was making fun of the play.’ She managed half a smile: ‘Actually it is a pretty stupid story.’

‘“He” meaning this director fellow?’

‘Hanyaki. He’s Japanese. He says I decided to be an actress just so people could see how good I was at mimicking characters I was superior to.’

‘And that isn’t how you feel about it, obviously.’

‘You don’t go to drama school,’ Elaine said, ‘for two years spending hours and hours in classes to show off that you can mimic.’

The girl was on the brink of tears again. Paul poured some wine for her. ‘And now you’re in India,’ he said brightly.

‘I walked out in the middle of rehearsal. Three days ago. Next morning I went straight to the Indian Embassy to queue for a visa.’

‘Well, walking out takes courage. Not to mention getting on a long-haul flight.’

‘More like desperation,’ she said. She laughed nervously. The girl had shown no particular interest, Paul thought, in the Indian menu, no surprise at the arrangements in the large low dining hall, the characteristic Indian sounds and smells. He felt sorry for her. She couldn’t have been more out of place.

‘Well, sometimes you have to act on impulse,’ he said philosophically. ‘Actually, that’s pretty much what it felt like when I decided to give up the book. It was a decision I had to take, even though I’d been so excited about writing the thing.’

She pushed her plate aside. ‘I’m sorry, to be honest, all I’m thinking about is where John is.’ In a rush, she added: ‘Actually, he’d asked me to marry him. I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? It really freaked me out. A few months ago. When he was here for the funeral actually. Now I was coming to say yes, I mean I’ve gradually got used to the idea, I wanted to appear at his mum’s door and tell him yes, when he least expected it, and then when I arrive he’s not even here! And he lied to me about where he was.’

Paul saw the confusion in her eyes. He sighed. ‘That’s really too bad, because it would have made a lovely story.’ He waited a moment. He must get the girl thinking rather than just suffering. ‘So why exactly would he have come out here?’ he eventually asked. ‘I mean, his mother wasn’t ill or anything. You say he had a research position that was important for him. I don’t get it. But then, frankly, I don’t get why he’d have said he was coming if he wasn’t.’

Elaine looked down at her fingers. ‘He’d turned moody.’ She said, ‘I don’t know.’

She shook her head. ‘Want to hear something strange? I can mimic almost anyone, honestly, I’ve always been able to, but I can’t mimic John. I never could. It’s as if I can’t really … grasp him. You know? Perhaps that means I love him. Do you think?’ She smiled sadly. ‘And I’ve seen his mother, what, ten minutes, and I could imitate her forever.’

Paul watched the girl. When their eyes met he raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on, then.’

‘What? Imitate her?’

‘Why not? Might be more fun than crying.’

‘Right.’

Elaine thought for a moment. She closed her eyes and sat very still. Then her face smoothed a little and somehow ceased to be lopsided. The lips straightened and thinned, the eyes opened a little wider, the nose was sterner, more pointed, the shoulders rose above the table and spread. In a completely changed voice, brusquer, deeper, more upper class, she said: ‘There is really a lot of work to do, I’m afraid, at the clinic, heavens, I’m late!, we are so short-staffed, but Elaine dear, not to worry, I’m sure this is all just a little communication glitch. Let me phone for a cab, shall I? Hello? Helen James here. Yes. That’s right. Opposite Lodhi Gardens.’ She said a few words of fluent gobbledegook, vaguely Hindi. ‘Now, yes, if you don’t mind, as soon as possible, there are people counting on me, thank you, thank you that’s very kind.’ Then, as if calling from a distance: ‘Paul will sort you out, won’t you Paul? Do make sure Elaine finds a decent hotel, then we’ll tackle the problem of John tomorrow.’

Paul burst out laughing. ‘Fantastic! You’ve got her to a tee. I can’t believe you only saw her once.’ Simultaneously, he recalled Helen as she had been this afternoon, distraught, convulsed, then immediately composed again when the doorbell rang. It was reassuring, he thought, that however upset she might be, Helen James was not the sort of woman who would ever ask to be looked after; she would never make you feel guilty.

‘You’ve got a real talent,’ he encouraged the girl.

‘But that’s exactly what Hanyaki hated! You see. He said it was too obvious and I was condescending to the person I mimicked. He thought I had a superiority complex. I sort of pointed at them, rather than really being them.’

Paul wondered if the girl was more upset about her job situation or her boyfriend. ‘Maybe it’s just a problem with this director,’ he reassured her. ‘Some actors have that, I’ve heard.’ Then on instinct he asked. ‘It wasn’t the guy John thought you were having the affair with?’

Elaine stared. ‘How did you know?’

Paul shrugged. The girl had put down her knife and fork and lifted her hands to her cheeks. There was something very underage about the bitten nails. Then, rather deliberately, Elaine looked around the restaurant. ‘How elegant the fat women are!’ she said. With conscious aplomb she mimed the gesture of tossing a shawl over her shoulder, wobbling her head a little, Indian fashion. Immediately she seemed adult, even old. And I thought she wasn’t looking, Paul thought.

Elaine turned back to her food. A moment later, she told him: ‘The strange thing with John’s family, you know, was that though they never phoned or emailed and hardly ever saw each other, he was incredibly attached. He was always talking about them. I mean, like I never would with mine. Nobody could ever meet John without knowing inside two minutes that he was Albert James’s son. And his mother too. He was so proud of them. That’s why I was sure he’d be here.’

Paul agreed it was strange. ‘Would you like to go into town,’ he asked, ‘if the rain has eased?’

‘And I feel so stupid,’ Elaine protested. ‘Like, if I’d behaved just a bit differently, just a bit, or, I mean, if I’d seen it coming, you know, him running off, if I’d had any idea, none of this would have happened. None of it.’

‘If people saw things coming,’ Paul consoled her, ‘we wouldn’t have any history, would we?’

In that split second it occurred to him that this must have been Albert James’s project in the end: to have no more history.