The aunt recovered and dabbed her eyes. “We are begging you.”
Then Alice found herself weeping with the woman, unable to speak.
The next day a man visited. He was kindly, with a black mustache that hid his mouth. He twisted its ends as he spoke, giving the big thing tips like tails. He wore a shirt and tie and a pale silk suit, and in that terrible heat did not look hot.
“I represent the family of the accused,” he said. He handed Alice his card. He looked absurd on the white plastic chair, but it was the only place on the grounds where Alice could meet someone without being overheard. It was bad enough being seen like this. No one dressed that way ever visited the ashram.
Alice glanced at the card, the man’s long name, the word “Solicitors.” The man took some papers out of his briefcase.
“This is a release form. Your signature is required.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It is the wisest course. This way, no one gets dragged through the mud.” He tugged and twisted his mustache tips.
“I don’t care. I want him on trial, facing the charges.”
“Miss. Listen to me. You will also be on trial. Everything will be known about you. A thorough investigation will be undertaken and all the facts of the case made public.”
Another wordy Indian trying to sell her his opinion. She said, “So what?”
“In some instances, unpleasant facts.”
“I’m not signing.”
With one hand twisting a mustache tip, and seeming confident, the man said, “For example, in Mumbai, it has been established that you entertained a young American chap in your hotel room.”
“That’s a lie.”
“We are in receipt of the desk clerk’s signature on a sworn affidavit.”
It had to be Stella, entertaining Zack, but Alice said nothing.
“We are well aware that you have limited funds at your disposal. The family is prepared to compensate you. This can be negotiated.”
Alice said, “Please leave.”
“A young man’s life is in your hands.”
She wanted to say, “Fuck him,” but instead she said, “Not in my hands, unfortunately. In the hands of the law. I demand justice.”
A trait she deplored in herself was lapsing into pomposity when trying to control her anger. But that was preferable to the obscenity, which she was inclined to scream into the man’s face.
“This charge is like death in India. I assure you the family will fight it passionately. You may regret that you pushed so hard for justice, young lady.”
“You’re threatening me,” Alice said, rising from her chair, a shriek entering her voice. “In this holy place!”
The man stood up then and, with a frown of regret, thanked her. He walked to the gate, where his car was waiting.
Priyanka found her, dried tears staining her face, and spoke to her as though to soothe her, yet Alice heard what she said as scolding.
More people visited, offering conciliation, mediation, money; also making solemn promises, pleading with her to drop the case. One of them, a man in a homespun cotton jacket and a Nehru cap, left an envelope behind, a plane ticket to Delhi inside it. There was no return address on the envelope, so she couldn’t send it back. She tucked it into her journal. She had done no writing since the day of the incident. She did not have the words to describe what had happened to her.
After the first wave of people, begging and pleading, after a visit from another lawyer—this one also had a document he wanted her to sign—there ensued several more waves of visitors, each less friendly than the last. Apart from the lawyers, the imploring people had come in shuffling groups, women mostly, weepers and grovelers. The darker, unpleasant ones came singly. They were younger and tougher. They claimed to know all about her.
“We’ve been in touch with your friends,” one man said.
Alice said nothing. Was he talking about Stella, or was he fishing?
“We’ve taken statements from them.”
This was a young man in a blue shirt and brown slacks and sandals, with dangerous-looking hands.
“I think you’re trying to frighten me.”
“If you’re smart you will be frightened. Take my advice. Drop this and go home.”
Alice was thinking how well these people spoke English, with diabolical accuracy, always with a rejoinder, and all of them were on Amitabh’s side.
The young man left glowering because Alice had fallen silent. Another man came the next day, trying to wear her down. He was older, better dressed, a gold chain around his neck, a gold bracelet on his wrist, an expensive watch.
“You’re way out of your depth. You’re lucky nothing has happened to you so far. Some of these blighters want to make a move. I don’t know how long I can keep them away.”
His manner was so persuasive it roused her. She said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe prevent you from testifying at a trial. Maybe prevent you from going anywhere.”
This was a direct threat to her life. Yet, like the others, he left her abruptly, first handing over his business card.
Some days passed, days of peace; she had almost forgotten the earlier visits. And then two men came. They said they had a message. They looked fierce. The hot weather, the humidity, their sweating faces made them look villainous.
“You should be afraid,” one of them said.
He was nudged aside by his friend, who said, “I am going to put this very plainly. Amitabh is betrothed. A match has been found. It’s a good arrangement. But if this trial goes forward he is ruined. The other family will withdraw—no marriage.”
“Your fault,” the first man said.
Alice said, “You want me to drop the charges so that Amitabh can go ahead with his arranged marriage?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Does this woman know he’s a rapist?”
“The charge will never be proven, so why waste your time?”
“That poor woman,” Alice said. And without her being conscious of their leaving, the men simply disappeared.
Priyanka was waiting for her at the far side of the pavilion, near the statue of Saraswati balancing her sitar. She took Alice’s damp and anxious hands in hers and said, “We’re concerned that you have so many visitors.”
“I can’t help it. I don’t invite them.”
Priyanka released Alice’s hands and took a step back, a self-conscious move, like a formal dance step, as though she’d rehearsed this.
“The committee has met and decided”—she tilted her head, another affectation—“with regret, that you’ll have to leave.”
“When?”
“Forthwith. Oh, we can suggest some other places where you’d be comfortable.”
Alice had begun to walk away. Without turning, she said, “I don’t want you to know where I’m going.”
Her rucksack that had been such an awkward burden months ago was now much smaller. She’d given away all her cold-weather clothes. She had her saris, some T-shirts, the shawls. Since the assault, she had become obsessed with covering herself.
There was one place for her to go—in a sense, the only place, but logicaclass="underline" the last place.
8
From her tiny room above the stable she could hear the snorting of the elephant. And she saw the gateway leading to the lane where she had stood the previous day, her pack on her back, a plastic bag in her hand—carrots for the elephant. The elephant had seen her first, had trumpeted, then nodded and tugged at his leg chain. He rocked to and fro on his great cylindrical legs. Hearing him, the mahout had appeared, and smiled when he saw Alice, and approached her. He grasped her predicament in an instant. He didn’t need language or explanation. He worked with animals. He did not need to be told when one was lost.