He made his way through them as best he could, by looking up at the massive edifice, the Gateway of India, a Victorian arch of stone. The guide was saying that it served as a place of reception on important ceremonial occasions.
Leaving the others, Julian made his way through the arch to the large square beyond. There were more beggars here, each more ragged and dirty than the last. He looked about and spotted what appeared to be a police officer: a tall, handsome man with a thick black beard which was gathered up in a little net, and a white turban. He was in uniform and carried a swagger stick. He wore an iron-handled knife at his belt and an iron bangle on his left wrist. Julian was to find out later that the man was a Sikh.
He approached and said, “I beg your pardon. Could you direct me to the Taj Mahal Hotel?”
The other touched his turban in an easygoing salute, and pointed. “That is the Taj, right over there, sir.”
It was only a few hundred yards away, and as Julian walked toward it he could see that it was a large building, undoubtedly built in the old Victorian days of the Empire. It reminded him of a Gothic British railway station. There were two turbaned men at the door. One of them opened it at Julian’s approach, bowing in servile fashion.
The reception hall beyond was as one might have expected from the exterior, and Julian could have been in one of the older London hotels had it not been for the fact that all of the employees wore white turbans and had very dark complexions.
He went to the desk, receiving another servile bow, and said, “I wish to see Edward Fitz-James.”
“Yes, sir. Sir Edward is not in his suite, sir. Only a few minutes ago I saw him ascend to the lounge on the second floor.” The clerk indicated a large, red-carpeted stairway.
“Thank you,” Julian said, evidently somewhat to the man’s surprise.
He ascended the stairs and found another turbaned Indian at its head. There seemed to be a multitude of employees in this hotel.
“Could you point out Edward Fitz-James to me, please?”
The other blinked at the please, bowed and said, “That is Sir Edward over there at the small table near the window, sahib.”
Sir Edward, yet. Julian hadn’t known the man he was seeking held a title. Fitz-James had once had business dealings with his father, and had become somewhat of a friend of the Wild Wests. Julian had been given an introduction by his uncle, who had evidently either written or cabled ahead, since Julian had received a radiogram arranging for a get-together.
Julian approached and asked politely, “Sir Edward Fitz-James?” The man who looked up at him stiffly was a stereotype of the bluff Britisher: possibly fifty-five, maybe thirty pounds overweight, too red in the face, with a toothbrush mustache. He wore white shorts to the knee, a white shirt, heavy walking shoes and white woolen socks almost up to the knee.
He stood up. “You must be Julian West, I wouldn’t wonder. Resemble your father a bit.” He put out a beefy hand to shake and said, “Do sit down, dear boy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Julian said, and took an overstuffed leather chair across from the Englishman.
Sir Edward said jovially, “I say, if you walked over from the gate, you must already be bloody hot. Terrible climate here, isn’t it? Do have a lime squash.”
Then Julian noticed that he had a tall glass before him, well frosted, which contained a slightly greenish beverage. He turned and snapped his fingers imperiously at the nearest Indian, who hurried over.
“Another lime squash,” Sir Edward commanded. “And put a move into it.”
“Yes, Sir Edward,” the man said and hurried away.
“Beggars are slow as turtles,” the Britisher commented in a voice loud enough to carry to the man and half the other waiters in the lounge. “You have to learn the drill here. Keep the niggers in their place, don’t you know?”
Julian couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he kept his peace. He found the other a bit on the overwhelming side.
“Read about your father and mother,” Sir Edward said. He puffed out his cheeks in what he probably thought was an expression of sympathy. “Bloody shame. Charming chap, your father. Mother a beautiful woman. One of the most vivacious women I’ve met, I wouldn’t wonder.”
“Thank you, sir. My uncle Albert said that you used to race with father, on the Riviera.”
“Jolly well told. Never forget the first time I saw him. Just brought in a Jaguar, a quarter mile ahead of his nearest opponent. I thought to meself, now there’s a sharp chap. Before the day was out we made friends.”
Julian’s lime squash had come. He lifted it up.
Sir Edward said, raising his own glass in a toast, “All the best, dear boy.”
What was the British toast? “Cheers, sir.” He tried the drink and found it to be possibly the best soft drink he’d ever had. It was something like lemonade, except that it had soda in it rather than water, and, of course, it was made with limes not lemons.
Sir Edward grimaced. “Could use a spot of gin. Bloody beggars have prohibition now. Damned nuisance.”
Julian said carefully, almost apologetically, “If you don’t like it here, sir, why do you remain?”
Sir Edward grunted his equivalent of a laugh. “No use mucking around with the answer to that, dear boy. This is where the action is, as you Yankees say. When the Indians gained their bloody independence, His Majesty’s governmental officials returned to England, don’t you know? But we British businessmen didn’t. We stayed on. In fact, there are more English in India today than during the days of the Raj.”
He looked at his watch. “But, I say, suppose we mosey along and see a bit of the town? Bit interesting for you, I wouldn’t wonder. First trip to India and all that rot.”
They left the hotel and started up Colaba Road. Even in this Europeanized area, Julian couldn’t help but note the teeming multitudes of Indians. He had never seen such diversity of colorful costume.
“Bloody mess of the bounders, eh?” the Englishman said. “Pushing half a billion in all. More than four million in Bombay alone, I shouldn’t wonder. Jolly well too many of them. I’d jolly well like to go through the countryside and sterilize every other male, don’t you know?”
Julian said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so crowded except Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”
They had turned up Mahatma Gandhi Road.
“Son of a bitch, as you Yankees say,” Sir Edward commented about Gandhi. “Caused us ever so much trouble, but I suppose you can’t hold it against a chap for trying to get his own way, now can you?”
“I suppose not,” Julian said. “They certainly do have a great many different styles of clothes, don’t they?”
The Englishman turned guide. “Way you can tell the bloody bounders apart,” he said. “’See that one over there? The better dressed one? That’s a Brahman.” He sneered. “The nigger equivalent of an aristocrat. They wear a sacred thread over one shoulder and have a mark of one of the Hindu gods chalked on their forehead, rising from the bridge of the nose like two thin white horns. That’s one of the marks of Vishnu, the Preserver. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“What kind is that one?”
“Moslem. You can usually tell them from a Hindu because they wear a black fur cap. She’s a Moslem too. They wear that enveloping chadar or burqa. Looks like an animated tent, don’t you think?”
Most of the women, other than the occasional European, wore what Julian knew was called a sari, but there were a double score of styles.