II
‘What was his name?’
‘His name was Xavier,’ I answered.
‘Like the missionary?’ he asked. And then he said: ‘It’s not an English name, that’s for sure, is it?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Portuguese. But he didn’t come as a missionary; he’s a Portuguese who lost his way in India.’
The doctor nodded his head in agreement. He had a gleaming hairpiece that shifted like a rubber skullcap every time he moved his head. ‘A lot of people lose their way in India,’ he said, ‘it’s a country specially made for that.’
I said: ‘Right.’ And then I looked at him and he looked at me without a trace of concern on his face, as if he were there by chance and everything else were where it was by chance, because that was how it had to be.
‘Do you know his surname as well?’ he asked. ‘It can be helpful sometimes.’
‘Janata Pinto,’ I said. ‘He had some distant connections with India, I think one of his ancestors was from Goa, or at least so he said.’
The doctor made a gesture as if to say, that’s enough, but that wasn’t what he meant of course.
‘There must be some records,’ I said, ‘or I hope there are.’
He smiled with an unhappy, guilty look. He had very white teeth with a gap in the upper set. ‘Records. .’ he muttered. Suddenly his expression became hard and tense. He looked at me severely, almost contemptuously. ‘This hospital is in Bombay,’ he said abruptly, ‘you can forget your European notions, they are an arrogant luxury.’
I said nothing and he too sat there silent. From his shirt pocket he pulled out a straw cigarette case and took a cigarette. Behind his table, on the wall, was a big clock. It said seven o’clock, it had stopped. I looked at it and he understood what I was thinking. ‘It stopped a long time ago,’ he said, ‘anyhow, it’s midnight.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you since eight, the day-doctor told me you were the only one who might be able to help me, he says you have a good memory.’
He smiled again, his sad, guilty smile, and I realised that once again I’d slipped up, that it was not a gift to have a good memory in a place like this.
‘He was a friend of yours?’
‘In a way,’ I said, ‘once.’
‘When was he admitted?’
‘Almost a year ago, I think, at the end of the monsoon.’
‘A year is a long time,’ he said. And then went on: ‘The monsoon is the worst season, so many people come in.’
‘I can imagine,’ I answered.
He put his head in his hands, as if he were thinking, or as if he were very tired. ‘You can’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’
It was a simple, practical question, but I hesitated over the answer, for I too felt the weight of memory, and at the same time I sensed its inadequacy. What does one remember of a face in the end? No, I didn’t have a photograph, I only had my memory: and my memory was mine alone, it wasn’t describable, it was the look I remembered on Xavier’s face. I made an effort and said: ‘He’s the same height as I am, thin, with straight hair; he’s about my age; sometimes he has an expression like yours, Doctor, because if he smiles he looks sad.’
‘It’s not a very exact description,’ he said, ‘still, it makes no difference, I don’t remember any Janata Pinto, at least not for the moment.’
We were in a very grey, bare room. On the far wall was a large concrete sink, like the kind used for washing clothes. It was full of sheets of paper. Next to the sink was a long rough table and that too was laden with paper. The doctor got up and went to the far end of the room. He seemed to have a limp. He began to rummage through the papers on the table. From where I was I had the impression that they were pages from exercise books and pieces of brown wrapping paper.
‘My records,’ he said, ‘each one is a name.’
I stayed where I was in my seat facing his small work table, looking at the few objects he’d put there. There was a small glass ball with a model of Tower Bridge and a framed photograph showing a house that looked like a Swiss chalet. It struck me as absurd. At a window of the chalet you could see a female face, but the photograph was faded and blurred.
‘He isn’t an addict, is he?’ he asked me from the other end of the room. ‘We don’t admit addicts.’
I didn’t say anything and shook my head. ‘Not that I know of,’ I said then. ‘I don’t think so, I’m not sure.’
‘But how do you know he came to the hospital, are you sure?’
‘A prostitute at the Khajuraho hotel told me. That was where he was staying, last year.’
‘And you,’ he asked, ‘are you staying there too?’
‘I slept there last night, but I’ll leave tomorrow. I try not to stay more than a night in the same hotel, whenever possible.’
‘Why?’ he asked, suspicious. He held an armful of papers and looked at me over his glasses.
‘Just because,’ I said. ‘I like to change every night, I’ve only got this one small suitcase.’
‘And have you already decided for tomorrow?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I think I’d like a very comfortable hotel, maybe a luxury one.’
‘You could go to the Taj Mahal,’ he said, ‘it’s the most sumptuous hotel in the whole of Asia.’
‘Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,’ I answered.
He plunged his arms into the sink amongst the pieces of paper. ‘So many people,’ he said. He had sat down on the rim of the basin and was cleaning his glasses. He rubbed his eyes with a handkerchief as if they were tired or irritated. ‘Dust,’ he said.
‘The paper?’ I said.
He lowered his eyes and turned away from me. ‘The paper,’ he said, ‘the people.’
From the distance came a dark boom of iron, as though a bin were rolling down the stairs.
‘Anyway, he’s not there,’ he said, letting all the papers drop. ‘I don’t think it’s worth looking for him amongst these names.’
Instinctively I got up. The moment had come for me to leave, I thought, that was what he was saying, that I should go. But he didn’t seem to notice and went to a metal cabinet that once upon a time must have been painted white. He rummaged inside and took out some drugs which he hastily slipped into the pockets of his gown. I had the impression he was picking them up at random almost, without choosing them. ‘If he’s still here, the only way to find him is to go and look for him,’ he said. ‘I have to do my round, if you want you can come along.’ He headed for the door and opened it. ‘I’ll be doing a longer round than usual tonight, but perhaps you won’t find it convenient to come with me.’
I got up and followed him. ‘It’s convenient,’ I said. ‘Can I bring my case with me?’
The door opened onto a hallway, a hexagonal space with a corridor leading off on every side. It was cluttered with cloths, bags and grey sheets. Some had purple or brown stains. We turned into the first corridor on our right; above the entrance was a plaque written in Hindu; some of the letters had fallen off leaving lighter outlines between the red letters.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said, ‘and don’t go near the patients. You Europeans are very delicate.’
The corridor was very long and was painted a melancholy light blue. The floor was black with cockroaches which burst under our shoes, though we were doing our best not to tread on them. ‘We kill them off,’ said the doctor, ‘but after a month they’re back. The walls are impregnated with larvae, you’d have to knock down the hospital.’
The corridor ended in another hallway identical to the first, but narrow and light-less, closed off with a curtain.
‘What did Mr Janata Pinto do?’ he asked, pushing aside the curtain.
I thought of saying: ‘Simultaneous interpreter,’ which was what I should have said perhaps. Instead I said: ‘He wrote stories.’