‘What are you?’ I asked. ‘If you’ll forgive my indiscretion.’
‘I’m a Jain,’ he said.
The station clock struck midnight. The distant wail suddenly stopped, as if the wailer had been waiting for the hour to strike. ‘Another day has begun,’ said the man, ‘from this moment it’s another day.’
I said nothing, his assertions didn’t exactly encourage conversation. A few minutes went by; I had the impression that the platform lights had grown dimmer. My companion’s breathing had slowed, with pauses between each breath, as if he were sleeping. When he spoke again I started. ‘I’m going to Varanasi,’ he said, ‘what about yourself?’
‘To Madras,’ I said.
‘Madras,’ he repeated, ‘oh yes.’
‘I want to see the place where it’s said the Apostle Thomas was martyred; the Portuguese built a church there in the sixteenth century, I don’t know what’s left of it. And then I have to go to Goa, I’m going to do some work in an old library — that’s why I came to India.’
‘Is it a pilgrimage?’ he asked.
I said no. Or rather, yes, but not in the religious sense of the word. If anything, it was a private journey, how could I put it, I was only looking for clues.
‘You’re a Catholic, I suppose,’ said my companion.
‘All Europeans are Catholics, in a way,’ I said. ‘Or Christians anyway, which is practically the same thing.’
The man repeated the adverb I’d used as if he were savouring it. His English was very elegant, with little pauses and the conjunctions slightly drawled and hesitant, the way people speak in certain universities I realised. ‘Practically. . Actually,’ he said, ‘what strange words. I heard them so many times in England, you Europeans often use these words.’ He paused a moment longer than usual, but I was aware that he hadn’t finished what he was saying. ‘I never managed to establish whether out of pessimism or optimism,’ he went on. ‘What do you think?’
I asked him if he could explain himself better.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s difficult to explain more clearly. Yes, sometimes I ask myself if it’s a word which indicates arrogance, or whether on the contrary it merely signifies cynicism. And a great deal of fear as well, perhaps. You follow me?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It isn’t that simple. But perhaps the word “practically” means practically nothing.’
My companion laughed. It was the first time he had laughed. ‘You are very clever,’ he said, ‘you got the better of me and at the same time you proved me right, practically.’
I laughed too, and then said at once: ‘However, in my case it is practically fear.’
We fell silent for a while, then my companion asked if he could smoke. He rummaged in a bag he had near the bed and the room filled with the aroma of one of those small, scented Indian cigarettes made from a single leaf of tobacco.
‘I read the gospels once,’ he said. ‘It’s a very strange book.’
‘Only strange?’ I asked.
He hesitated. ‘Full of arrogance too,’ he said. ‘No offence meant you understand.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see what you mean,’ I said.
‘I was referring to Christ,’ he said.
The station clock struck half-past midnight. I felt sleep getting the better of me. From the park beyond the platforms came the cawing of crows. ‘Varanasi is Benares,’ I said. ‘It’s a holy city. Are you going on a pilgrimage too?’
My companion stubbed out his cigarette and coughed lightly. ‘I’m going there to die,’ he said, ‘I have only a few days left to live.’ He arranged his cushion under his head. ‘But perhaps it would be wise to sleep,’ he went on. ‘We don’t have many hours to rest — my train leaves at five.’
‘Mine leaves just a little later,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the attendant will come and wake you up in time. I don’t suppose we shall have occasion to see each other again in the form in which we meet today, these present suitcases of ours. I wish you a pleasant journey.’
‘A pleasant journey to you too,’ I answered.
V
My guidebook maintained that the best restaurant in Madras was the Mysore Restaurant in the Coromandel, and I was most curious to check it out. In the boutique on the ground floor I bought a white shirt, Indian style, and a pair of smart trousers. I went up to my room and took a long bath to wash away the grime of the journey. The rooms in the Coromandel are furnished in imitation colonial style, but in good taste. My room was at the back of the building and looked out over a yellowish clearing surrounded by wild vegetation. It was a huge room, with two large beds covered with two quite beautiful counterpanes. At the far end, near the window, was a writing table with a central drawer and then three drawers at each side. It was by pure chance that I chose the bottom drawer on the right to put my papers in.
I ended up going down much later than I would have liked, but in any case the Mysore stayed open till midnight. The restaurant had French windows opening onto the swimming pool and small round tables in booths of green-lacquered bamboo. The lights on the tables had blue shades and there was a great deal of atmosphere. A musician on a red-upholstered dais entertained the diners with some very discreet music. The waiter led me through the tables and was most helpful when it came to advising me what to eat. I treated myself to three dishes and drank fresh mango juice. The customers were almost all Indians, but at the table nearest mine were two Englishmen who had a professional look about them and talked about Dravidian art. They kept up a very pretentious, knowledgeable conversation, and for the duration of my meal I amused myself by checking in my guidebook to see if the information they were giving each other was correct. Occasionally one of them got a date wrong, but the other didn’t seem to notice. Conversations you overhear by chance are curious: I would have said they were old university colleagues, and only when they agreed not to take tomorrow’s flight for Colombo did I realise that they had only met that day. Going out I was tempted to stop in the English Bar in the lobby, but then I reflected that my tiredness had no need of alcoholic assistance and I went up to my room.
When the telephone rang I was cleaning my teeth. For a moment I thought it might be the Theosophical Society, since they had promised they would confirm by phone, but moving to pick it up I rejected that hypothesis, given the time. Then it crossed my mind that before dinner I had mentioned in reception that one of the bathroom taps wasn’t working properly. And in fact it was reception. ‘Excuse me, sir, there’s a lady who wishes to speak to you.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I answered with my toothbrush between my teeth.
‘There’s a lady who wishes to speak to you,’ the receptionist repeated. I heard the click of a switch and a low, firm female voice said: ‘I am the person who had your room before you, I’ve absolutely got to speak to you. I’m in the lobby.’
‘If you give me five minutes I’ll meet you in the English Bar,’ I said. ‘It should still be open.’
‘I’d prefer to come up myself,’ she said, without giving me time to reply, ‘it’s a matter of the utmost importance.’
When she knocked I had scarcely finished getting dressed again. I told her the door was unlocked and she opened it, stopping a moment in the doorway to look at me. The light in the corridor was dim. All I could see was that she was tall and wore a silk scarf round her shoulders. She came in, closing the door after her. I was sitting on an armchair in the full light and I got up. I didn’t say anything, waiting. And in fact it was she who spoke first. She spoke without advancing into the room, in the same low, firm voice she’d had on the telephone. ‘Please forgive this intrusion. You must think me incredibly rude — unfortunately there are circumstances when one can hardly be otherwise.’