The Elephanta Suite (33 page)

She wondered, Should I leave? But she did nothing. The weather had grown hot, no rains yet, dust hanging in the air, particles of it on her lips. She languished in the soupy lukewarm air of the ashram, where time was so clouded it was measured in months.

Miss Ghosh's secretary called her on the ashram's emergency number, the only one she had, and passed on Miss Ghosh's complaint that intrusive strangers were trying to get in touch with Alice. People who claimed they wanted to help were wasting InfoTech's time. You couldn't be more despised in India than being told by someone's secretary you were a problem. Letters and printed e-mail messages were forwarded in bundles to the ashram. Using a phone card and the phone across the road at the ramshackle shop, Alice responded to the offers of help.

"We must meet you face to face," a woman said.

Alice agreed, but regretted it as soon as they showed up, three of them. One was the speaker, the others were silent, supporting her on either side. Alice met them just inside the ashram gate, the public entrance near the shoe rack, where there were chairs.

The two silent women stood; the woman who spoke sat on a white molded-plastic chair. Like the others she carried a basket. She had a mean face and sunken, mask-like eyes, and even trying to talk in a benign way she sounded like a scold, saying, "You are new to India. We are taught to be kind to strangers. We need you to bear with us."

People offering favors in India always were in need of greater favors. No charity ever, only salesmanship.

The woman said, "The smallest misstep can destroy a whole future. An elephant sees a mouse and it rears up and kills its keeper and tramples passersby."

Alice said, "What happened wasn't a misstep. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me."

"I am not thinking of your future. The boy will be ruined."

"I'm ruined," Alice said. She thought, Oh, God, don't cry again, and could not speak.

"You think that because you are young. Worse things will happen to you. Death will visit you and your family. This episode will seem like nothing."

"It was like death. What do you know?"

"You are strong and quite young. You can go on living your life. You can go home."

"I'm staying. I'm fighting this."

Her face crumpling, the speaking woman began quietly to weep. The other women consoled her. The one on the right, nearest to Alice, said, "This is Auntie. Her mother is sick. She has taken to her bed."

"A young man is being destroyed," the woman on the left said, while still the aunt wept.

Alice looked nervously behind her, and seeing that no one from the ashram was watching, she said, "Don't you see? He tried to destroy me."

"But he failed."

Alice lowered her head and whispered harshly, "He raped me."

"You are able to walk away," the woman on the right said. Now her stern tone was apparent. "He will be disgraced."

"I'm disgraced. You're women—why don't you see it?"

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 logical: the last place.

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.

He gestured decisively with his hand, clawing the air, saying "Come" with it, using his head, too, to be emphatic.

Alice smiled to show him she understood, and when she shrugged, seeming helpless, the mahout became active, began talking in his own language, and called to an open window. A woman stuck her head out, probably his wife, and she listened to what the mahout was saying.

Wiping her hands on a blue towel, the woman swept out of the ground floor door, her legs working quickly but invisibly under her sari, and went straight to Alice. She did not offer a namaste. She took Alice in her arms, enfolded her, and Alice began to sob.

She also thought, Is it so obvious that I look pathetic? How friendless I must seem.

She valued her own strength, she believed she was tough—too tough, she often thought—and here she was, weeping in the arms of a stranger.

That was what the assault had done to her—turned her into a wreck. People say, You'll be stronger for it, but I will never be strong again.

He has broken me, she thought. She had not dared to think it in the ashram, where they'd seen her as a tough American—tough enough to be turned into the street. But here, among these kind people, in the presence of the nodding elephant, she could admit to being what she had become, a weakling, in tears.

The woman took her to a sink and put a piece of soap into her hand and urged her to wash her face. Then she sat Alice at a wobbly table and brought her a dish of rice, a bowl of dhal, some okra, some yogurt, a sweetish paste, a lump of glistening pickle.

"I hadn't realized how hungry I was," Alice said.

The woman was smiling, as though at her daughter. She understood Alice's gratitude. She brought out a framed photograph, a young woman in a cap and gown, a graduation picture.

"Mysore," the mahout said.

Their daughter, obviously, looking proud, holding a rolled-up diploma. Working in Mysore, probably Alice's age. Their own daughter's absence made them sympathetic.

The mahout stood at a little distance, bandy-legged, in torn trousers and sandals, a turban knotted on his head, watching Alice eat.

Afterward, the woman brought a bowl of warm water for Alice to wash her hands, a small towel, a broken piece of soap.

All this ritual, shuffling and serving, and then, snatching air with her hand, the woman gestured for Alice to follow her. When Alice bent to pick up her rucksack, the woman waved her away. The mahout called out the window, and a young girl hurried into the room, hoisted the rucksack, and unsteadily mounted the stairs behind them.

Up the flight of stone stairs there was a small room overlooking the courtyard, where the elephant was chained. The bed was on a low frame, near the wall sat a table and chair, and above them hung a colored picture of a seated god—perhaps Shiva, with a cobra hovering over him. On the floor a pale pink rug, at the far wall a bookshelf: most of the books in English, biology, organic chemistry, physics textbooks. Of course, the daughter's room, the daughter's books. She was studying—what?—medicine? nursing? dentistry?

The old couple had no language to explain any of this, but no explanation was necessary. They had between them summed up Alice's predicament, and they knew when to leave her alone in the room. Alice showed them some money, a purse of rupees, but they made motions of refusal and backed away.

So she lay for a while on the hard bed, the clean sheet, her head empty, feeling stunned. Time did not advance, it rotated, twisting around her, defying her to name the day or month, as though she were in suspension. She may have dozed, for when she next looked at the window, night had fallen. The elephant stood still, his broad back and the dome of his head gleaming in the moonlight.