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.
