Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 15

India? Tropical? Sure it is! Eleven years before, in 1991, Max had the surprise of his life when he got off the plane in the early morning to find the airport freezing. The touts paced up and down the deserted concourse wrapped in wool blankets or huddled together sharing bidis — small hand-rolled cigarettes rolled with eucalyptus leaves. Taxi-wallahs clapped their hands to keep warm, and someone ordered someone else in English to “close that bloody door.” Travellers awaiting the first flights of the day noisily slurped their scalding hot chais as they sat on cardboard suitcases. Even the bhikari had their seasonal rags on. Delhi was a northerly city. Back at home, Max had expected to sweat in a soaking shirt caked in dust from the roads. Instead, he rubbed his hands in time with Antoine in their first-class compartment on the Poorva Express, which runs from Delhi to Varanasi. Indians stared at the two in amazement, a bit the way Montrealers would gawk at a couple of tourists wandering along Saint Denis in February: “Hey, Sahibji, you should’ve read a guidebook. You don’t visit northern India in winter.”

Visit … uh-huh, like the lovers at the Akbar Road Hotel who also chose the wrong season and, shivering, stumbled into the former British residence converted to a European-style inn, whose name they could never dredge up. Max and Antoine were just back from Varanasi and waiting for a flight to New York via Geneva. Antoine, who never spoke anyway, suffered his marathon of pain in silence. They’d had three days to kill. Originally they figured they’d spend more time in India for a change of scene, but everything reminded them of Pascale. Every tourist in a kurta pyjama, every baba in a dhoti, any young woman in a salwar or ghagra somehow seemed to be her appearing in the middle of a crowd. After the cremation in Varanasi, Max had tried to change their booking for a quick return to the States, but the flights were filled, all except this one via Switzerland.

The inn was a lugubrious place, chilly too, like the rest of the city. The sight of these two young tourists, happy and in love, with whom they shared the Victorian mansion, cut him to the heart. His room was unbearable as well. Its only window opened onto a billboard: INDIA IS FOR LOVERS. He had avoided the hotel whenever he could. He couldn’t stand the sight of couples cuddling at breakfast. Unable to bear the silence of his travelling companion or the spectacle of that billboard any longer, Max spent his time at Connaught Place and always ate alone at The Most Welcome Restaurant, an American fast-food place near the Middle Circle.

This time, though, Max’s arrival at Indira Gandhi in the middle of the night was in a much more dramatic and public setting. At the Heathrow stopover, the Indian papers were full of news about the deteriorating political climate. The day before, in Srinagar, Kashmir’s summer capital, masked men in police uniforms had assassinated Abdul Ghani Lone, a moderate leader (said the experts) of the Hurriyat Alliance, the political front of the Kashmiri separatist movement. Ghani Lone had often opposed the Islamists, who, he said, were trying to seize control of the entire movement. Max recognized the name of Hizb-ul-Mujahideen, one of the organizations Patterson had mentioned. The Thousand Fanatics. The Indian government claimed these “madmen” had decided to neutralize the seventy-year-old leader once and for all.

What followed was a chain reaction. India accused Pakistan once again of supporting Hizb-ul-Mujahideen and the others via the ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence), who used them to interfere with the Indian Army in an attempt to destabilize the region. After the attack on Parliament, then Jammu, and finally blowing up a Canadian diplomat in his car, the murder of the Muslim leader was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Prime Minister Atal Vajpayee decided to react.

War was about to be declared.

That meant even more problems for Max. Both Canada and the U.S. had announced the “imminent” departure of their diplomatic personnel, and that would result in empty offices and furniture under dust-covers. New Delhi under siege: the airport shut down, armed men everywhere, sandbags, camouflage nets, and tanks on the tarmac. Actually, none of that was happening. Nothing dramatic at all. Except the heat. For real, this time. The sort of stinking heat that brings on nausea. Sure, in the arrivals hall there were a few soldiers done up in spotless uniforms, too spotless, as if they were getting ready for Independence Day. Pants nicely pressed, shoes shined, they circulated inconspicuously among the crowd of passengers, taxi-wallahs, and ever-present touts.

It was two in the morning, but the heat was so leaden you would have sworn it was noon. It seemed like forever since he’d left Montreal. During an interminable stopover in London, he’d bought a Lonely Planet guide. Apart from military vehicles, the road from the airport was deserted. He couldn’t actually see the jhopadpattis — slums — that lined it, but he smelled them in every unbearable trickle of water the car waded through. Once in town, they were constantly overtaken at high speed on the red-dirt avenues by khaki Jeeps and police cars. More than once, a kamikaze in uniform almost drove the taxi off the road. At times, the traffic was stopped by thanedars — police — who inspected the interior of every vehicle by flashlight.

“Aray saala … beat it,” the driver muttered as soon as they were out of earshot.

“You think it’ll be war?” Max asked, but the driver just shrugged his shoulders.

“Threats, threats, but they never do anything.”

“People must be afraid. There’s no one in the streets.”

“We’re in the embassy district.”

Around the Oberoi Hotel, as if to vindicate the driver, the military was even more discreet.

A young woman in a flowered sari, with a wreath of marigolds round her neck and a red dot on her forehead — the bindi, as Pascale had once explained to him — greeted Max in the lobby as if he were a distinguished guest. A persistent bellhop, with a Texas accent from his apprenticeship days in Houston, showed him to his room. Max had the impression he was expected to comment on it, as all tourists did, but he wouldn’t be one of them. He talked about the threat of war, but again all he got was a shrug.

The immense room opened onto the pool, though it was deserted by now, a huge blue stain glistening against the darkness. Max pulled the curtain to block the glare and tumbled onto the bed without unpacking. He didn’t know whether to sleep, rest, or send for a bottle of Scotch. One thing was certain: he had to think. How much was he sure of? The Indian papers he’d devoured since London kept up the same refrain. No terrorist group had claimed responsibility for the bombing that had gravely injured the Canadian diplomat and his driver, but no one was distancing themselves, either. The police were exploring all possible trails: a polite way of saying they hadn’t a clue what to do next. One thing nagged at Max, though. There was no mention of a kidnapping. The Indian authorities had not given that piece of information to the papers. Was it to keep the diplomatic community from panicking?

What else did he have to go on? Well, there was Kathmandu, the business trip that landed David in the middle of a civil war right before the kidnapping. At Heathrow, Max had done some research into the Maoist rebellion Juliette mentioned, as well as the massacre of the royal family by the crown prince the year before — regicide and patricide against the world’s most breathtaking backdrop.

This was turning out to be a trip marked by death, but how could it not be? Max never let go of David’s remark: “I keep thinking about my father. I’ve become like him. I feel just what he felt.”

Was striving for excellence how Philippe had erased Gilbert’s failure? Max, on the other hand, had strived for a life of crime, not honours and distinction. Big brother had impressed everyone in Vancouver. They fell all over themselves offering him grants as if the money were burning a hole in their pockets. When he graduated, one of his professors had encouraged him to apply to the Department of Foreign Affairs. He won the job and distinguished himself at it. But Ottawa was just a stepping stone for the ambitious Philippe, a place to garnish his already impressive list of contacts. Like Gilbert, he had a head full of dreams. Max, however, had tossed out his illusions with that shoebox. Yet the two were so much alike. What drew them so close together? Sadness, maybe. Or memories.

Stretched out on a bed that was far too large, Max again rummaged through his disjointed past. Philippe visiting him in Bordeaux Prison, not dishing out the expected sermon or words of caution or advice, just there to help. “If you need me …” But Max the delinquent youth didn’t expect anything from anyone. Big brother was on his way to Tokyo for three years — his first posting.

“I’ve become just like him,” David had said. What did he mean by that?

Since Philippe’s tragic death in Central America, the memory of his face had started to fade, but the attempt on his nephew’s life had brought it all back. The two became interchangeable, like photocopies.

Until now, the two had belonged in different space-time compartments. This trip to India had dissolved that barrier. Now he felt Philippe’s presence more than ever.

Like Pascale.

At the orphanage in Varanasi, when Sister Irène mentioned cremation, Max had imagined some discreet, antiseptic ceremony or other: a virtual cremation, in fact; out of his and Antoine’s sight. He saw himself flying back to New York with the urn in his suitcase, like some oversized souvenir snagged at the last minute in the duty-free shop. Instead, Pascale, his love, lay on the crisscrossed sandalwood logs and branches the attendants would rearrange countless times. They conducted the cremations on the ghats, the steps leading to the Ganges, while family and friends watched from a safe distance. He and Antoine had stood beside Sister Irène, rosary in hand. Upon arriving there, they’d been assailed by a swarm of the infirm — and not so infirm, in all likelihood — crouched at various levels, begging. Now, though, they were left in peace, the three of them alone in their sadness.

The nun had paid for the cremation and wanted to make sure the orphanage was getting its money’s worth, stoically watching the scene that had been pushed out of Max’s mind by events of the past few days. The phone call in the middle of the night from Varanasi, a stranger phoning to give him news, bad as well as good, of Pascale, who wanted to see him. She wanted to “explain it all,” but she was dying. The cancer had left her barely weeks to live — he’d searched ten years for her, everywhere, first with Antoine, then alone, until Mimi and Antoine persuaded him to move on: “You can’t live on memories forever.”

Who says?

Max could have gone on looking forever if that’s what it took. He would have crisscrossed Europe in all directions, located friends of hers, contacts, and business connections. He had no idea whom she’d left with, but there was someone; he was sure of that. They’d fled to Germany for a while, then disappeared again. Still Max wouldn’t let go. He’d find her; he knew it. He’d persuade her to return. All these years, she’d been living in India, and he was just now finding out with Antoine. She was in a convent and orphanage run by French nuns, and had just been welcomed there in the previous weeks. This Sister Irène said in her Toulouse accent and with a smug smile: “I grant you that Hinduism and Buddhism can bring some comfort, but in sickness, there’s nothing like the sympathy and compassion of the Christian faith.”

Max and Antoine hadn’t gone to Varanasi for a study in comparative religion. They just wanted to see Pascale and take her back to North America to get medical help. Sister Irène had turned to them and said: “I’m afraid it’s too late …”

Pascale had passed away the previous day. She’d left some things for Max and her brother: letters, jewellery.

The two of them followed the nun down the corridor; there were bachas — children — everywhere, but girls only. Max had read up on this: in India, the birth of a girl is considered a financial burden. Later, when she was old enough to marry, her future husband’s family would demand a huge dowry. One girl could perhaps be managed, but two would be prohibitive, and a third was better gotten rid of so as not to ruin the entire family. This is where Sister Irène came in. The orphans — abandoned children really — were left on temple steps or under the carts of chai-wallahs. Sister Irène gave the poor things a second chance.

The nun opened the door to a pure-white cell, bed linen washed and changed. There was jewellery Max didn’t recognize; Antoine either. Pascale must have got it after she left. Max gave it to Sister Irène, who nodded her thanks. There were three letters: for Mimi, Max, and Antoine. Max’s seemed jumbled, but he recognized Pascale’s chicken-scratches, a bit clumsier, it’s true, but they bore the same expressions, phrases, and spelling mistakes. It must have been difficult for her to have even put these few words together in her weakened state. She asked Max’s forgiveness for wrecking his life and regretted leaving without a word. What explanation would she have given? No way of knowing. Pascale was as reserved in her final letter as she was in life. A photo fell out of the envelope as he placed the letter back inside. He picked it up and saw Pascale in what must have been her last months, looking old and tired. Her smile was bitter and resigned. She was dressed in a sari with a bindi on her forehead, an Indian costume that was far from comic to Max.

Standing in the doorway with hands folded, Sister Irène seemed as much at a loss as they were. She came over to Max and held him in her arms. He didn’t know nuns were allowed to go that far. Of course, this was India, “pagan territory,” and Sister Irène was a model, forever setting the standard. Sympathy and compassion were always her guiding principles, and she said so freely.

Hours later, she accompanied them along the Ganges to the ghat in Manikarnika, where the cremation would take place. Max didn’t know Westerners had this right. By way of response, Sister Irène smiled in Indian fashion and shook her head. She knew very little of the road Pascale had taken. Pascale had simply shown up about ten years ago and joined a Buddhist community, as young foreigners do at the outset. Then, after a few months, most go back home, where they can take a shower, eat with utensils, and move on with their own lives, not one belonging to a group, religion, and culture of which they can never really be a part. Their intense and inevitable spirituality takes on the more comfortable form of a photo album.

Against all probability, though, unlike those other foreigners, Pascale had taken root in India, wavering between open, welcoming Buddhism and closed, hierarchical Hinduism.

“You know you can’t convert to it. It’s sealed off from everything else.”

“There are enough of them already,” Max shot back. “They don’t have to worry about recruiting.”

Sister Irène smiled. Their rickshaw, like Antoine’s, was stuck in a monstrous traffic-jam: rickshaws as far as the eye could see, utterly paralyzed, as well. It was like Friday evening at the entrance to New York’s Lincoln Tunnel.

Max had no idea whether Pascale’s body had been carried across the city on a bamboo stretcher, as was the custom, but now she rested on a pile of logs placed one by one to keep track of the price of this ceremony. The priest was about to set fire to the pyre when he suddenly turned to Sister Irène and pointed to something on the body. They conferred in Hindi for a moment, then Sister Irène asked Max and Antoine, “Do you wish to keep her ring?”

The officiant hadn’t waited, however, and was already taking it off to hand to Irène, who gave it to Max. He recognized the “jewel.” He’d made it himself in the prison workshop at Temagami, using recycled metal from tin cans, then given it to her when she visited the following weekend. She had cried and cried, so much that the guards, who were used to bursts of tears, came over to see if she was in hysterics. So this was all that remained, this ring of twisted scrap metal. Max was on the verge of tears now, too, and slipped it into his pocket as they lit the fire.

The smoke danced over Pascale’s remains, then flames lapped out from the centre. Max heard the crackling of wood and saw sparks tracing a path in the sky. Hypnotized, he watched without understanding, still in shock from the chintzy ring, the poor photo, and the letter saying nothing. Antoine stared rapt at the fire, walled in silence as always.

Pascale was burning well. Licked by flames, her body was now black. An odour of burning skin and hair invaded the ghat and blew toward them. Smoke was coming from every direction as Max closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he saw the fire had dwindled after the men stopped piling on wood. Max turned to Sister Irène as she apologized: “The orphanage has little enough money for the living, let alone the dead, and wood is expensive.”

“What will they do with the … what isn’t burnt?”

“It will go in the Ganges. The river’s full of human remains …”

Animals too. Climbing out of the rickshaw, he had seen a cow drifting with the current. He spoke to the man in charge and pulled a pile of rupees from his pocket. The man understood. He weighed out some more logs and threw them on. The flames grew again, stronger and higher. Antoine turned away, and Max saw he was sobbing off to one side, alone. His eyes met Sister Irène’s, and he felt like crying, too. He did.

Once Pascale’s body was completely consumed, Max and Antoine went down to the level that bordered the Ganges, their hands clutching ashes: some of wood, some of Pascale, who knows? Still, a ritual is a ritual, and Max felt both solemn and ridiculous at the same time. Antoine released them first, and the ashes vanished in the wind over the water. Then Max did the same, turning to Antoine, perhaps to hug him. What do you do at a time like this? Anyway, Antoine was gone. Max spotted his friend climbing up the ghats at full speed, as though chasing after someone. Max followed. What was this about? He caught up with Antoine, out of breath on the last level.

“He was here. I saw him,” he said looking around nervously. “He was watching us.”

“What are you talking about, who?”

“Some Westerner,” Antoine said. He’d already noticed him in the station at Varanasi, but thought he was dreaming … and now today, here.

“What, a tourist?”

Antoine turned to Max: “The guy at her place that night …”

Max recoiled. Her “kidnapper” — her lover — had come here to see her off, too.