Bombay Monsoon, page 4
“There is nothing to panic about,” she said, then justified the Emergency—capital E now, I figured—as necessary to protect the country from threats to its stability. She concluded her address with a plea for cooperation and trust in the days ahead.
And that was it. Everything was going to be fine. For Mother India and, I assumed, for Mrs. Gandhi.
I dressed and ventured down to the street where I found a black-and-yellow taxi to take me to work. It was after nine, and the office was humming. Our reporters were all present. The stringer—Flaherty—who’d first told me about Willy Smets’s parties was chatting with Yusuf “Joey” Rahman, an Indian-Canadian who’d returned to the old country to find a wife and never left. He was still single, by the way, living with his grandparents in Mandvi. Herbie Reichel was a veteran American journalist who’d earned his stripes writing for—coincidentally enough—Stars and Stripes during World War II. He’d served in the CBI Theater during the war, met an Anglo-Indian girl, and got married. He’d been in Bombay ever since. He was planning on retiring soon.
The telex rattled as messages arrived in bursts every thirty seconds or so. Frank was pacing in his cabin, reading a newspaper and puffing on yet another Chesterfield. Where did he find those in India, anyway?
I tapped on his door. When he saw me, he nearly swallowed his cigarette and threw the special edition of The Indian Herald he was reading to the floor.
“What are you doing here?” he bellowed. “Why the fuck aren’t you in Delhi covering this?”
“Take it easy,” I said, stepping inside. “There were no flights this morning. No car came to get me. No taxis either. Believe me, I wanted to be on that plane.”
He ran a hand through his thinning hair then snatched up the newspaper he’d tossed a moment before. He held it out for me to see.
“You don’t usually read the Indian Herald. Nothing else available?”
“This is the only one we could find. They’re saying the government shut off the electricity to the papers to prevent this news from getting out.”
I read the headline.
EMERGENCY DECLARED
JP, Morarji, Advani, Asoka Mehta & Vajpayee Arrested
“JP is Narayan,” I said. “The guy I was going to interview.”
Frank sank into his chair behind the desk. “You don’t think I know that? I was hoping you were there in Delhi, standing by his side, when they slapped the cuffs on him. Good job, Jacobs.”
He’d dispensed with “Dan,” meaning I was on the outs. Next he’d be handing the plum assignments to Joey Rahman instead of me. I didn’t have to worry about Herbie. He was running on empty, energy-wise. Joey, on the other hand, was eager and resourceful. Too bad he couldn’t write.
“Come on, Frank,” I said. “There were no flights this morning.”
He stewed despite my reasoning. “On top of everything else, we’re out your airfare. Maybe Janice can get a refund. If not, it’s coming out of your salary.”
Great. Not only had I already spent it on my room at the President, I’d have to spend it again to pay him back if he didn’t cool down.
I spent the next several hours digesting what news I could piece together and writing an article on the evolving situation. I ran it by Frank then filed it by telex to New York.
Around six, he called me to his office again. The rain was streaming down the windows outside, and it was hot. He called to Janice to get some coffee. She informed him that Vikram—Vikky—the chaiwallah, had left for the day.
“Goddamn it!” he said. “Get me some coffee.”
“Take it easy, Frank. It’s not her fault.”
He took a deep breath, lit a cigarette, and asked me what I thought our next move should be.
“I called the Press Club,” I said. “Looking for some guidance. They told me the government was preparing rules for the domestic and international press organizations.”
“Censorship?”
“Most likely. The guy said to call again in the morning, maybe he’d have more information by then.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep drag and blowing out the smoke. “How are we going to get the news out if they censor us?”
“Could be risky.”
“Nevertheless, we’ve got to prepare. Any ideas if they put us in a headlock?”
I thought for a moment. “I was in Chile when Pinochet took over two years ago. I got around the censors by shooting pictures of my typed stories. Then I went to the airport and begged passengers traveling to New York to take the film back with them. Our people met them at JFK.”
Frank nodded. “Not a bad idea. Yours?”
Actually, it was. But I didn’t want to come across as cocky, so I told him it had been Kate Erving’s idea.
“Should’ve figured,” he said. “Still, we’ll keep that one in our back pocket.”
Janice knocked on the glass and waited for permission to enter. Frank had come out of his furious fog and waved her in with a smile. Panicky, inconsiderate bastard, I thought. She placed two cups of instant coffee she’d begged from the CPA firm next door.
“Thanks, darling,” said Frank, and she withdrew.
CHAPTER FIVE
THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1975, 9:12 P.M.
I’d paid for a night in the President Hotel and I was going to make the most of it. It was a little after nine when I jumped into the shower to hose off the grime of the day. Clean again and wrapped in a robe, I checked for news on the television. They were showing a Marathi-language serial.
I was too wound up to go to bed, plus I hadn’t eaten since lunch. So I dressed—open-collar shirt and bell-bottoms—and made my way down to the lobby. My friend Akshay namaste’d me from behind his desk. I returned the greeting.
The coffee shop was doing a brisk business, but the hostess found me a free table near the buffet. A waiter materialized before I’d even parked myself in the chair. He took the folded linen napkin from the table and, once he’d shaken it out, draped it over my lap with great ceremony.
I ate alone, keeping myself entertained by watching the other diners. The foreigners tended to order à la carte. The Indians went for the buffet, which featured a wide variety of local and Western options, including beef Stroganoff. Made with buffalo meat, of course. I wasn’t touching that with Bill Cody’s lasso.
While the hotel’s clientele was mostly businessmen—foreign and Indian—there were some tourists and even a newlywed couple. They sat together nearby on a bench seat in a booth. They seemed happy. The bride was decked out in a beautiful sari, her hands stained with henna in intricate, lacy patterns. The groom wore a Western shirt and slacks. They ate with their fingers, as was customary. I’d once asked an Indian friend in the States about this, and he gave me an education.
“Do you really trust that the restaurant’s dishwasher is cleaning your flatware properly?” he’d asked with a sly smile. “We wash our hands before we sit down at the table, so we know they’re clean.”
He had a point.
By ten, I’d finished my modest thali: some dal, rice, palak, and sabzi. Vegetables. I signed the bill to my room and headed up to the nineteenth floor where there was a bar, what the Indians called a “permit room.” After the day I’d had, I felt a drink was the least I could do for myself.
A pleasant surprise. They had Dewar’s White Label, my dad’s brand. A black-vested waiter took my order and dutifully repeated it to me, before returning a few minutes later with my scotch and soda. He asked how many ice cubes I wanted, then doled out the exact number into my glass with a pair of silver tongs. The floor show aside, I wanted my drink. This guy was taking his time. But when I caught sight of the little carafe with my peg of whisky, I did a double take. The tiniest puddle of amber liquid sat at the bottom.
“Excuse me,” I said. “May I get a double?”
“A large whisky, sir?” he asked.
“Maybe a triple.”
At length, I had my scotch. I didn’t even add the soda for fear of drowning what little whisky was in my glass. The triple amounted to a short single back home. Resigned to paying the exorbitant price for my night at the President, I ordered a second drink a few minutes later. Not exactly “one to whet your appetite and one to rinse down dessert,” but the addition still came to two.
“Pretty miserly with the imported liquor, aren’t they?”
I turned to see who had spoken. It was Russell Harlan, the American I’d met early that same morning in the coffee shop.
“They serve it with an eye dropper,” he continued, referring to the liquor. “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest,” I said, wishing he’d push off instead.
He took the seat opposite me. “Does that mean you’re buying?”
I must have blanched, because he assured me he was kidding. In fact, he offered to stand me another drink.
“What’ll you have?”
“Dewar’s,” I said. “My dad’s scotch. They don’t give you very much, I’m afraid.”
“The thing you have to realize,” he said, “is that you’re going to spend a fortune on alcohol in this country. Might as well accept the fact. I’d rather blow forty bucks on a few healthy-sized drinks than three on the fumes they serve here.”
When the waiter arrived, Harlan ordered a double large for each of us. I made an exception to my dad’s rule. If I had to listen to this guy, I wanted some anesthesia. And double large sounded worse than it was; four pegs at the President amounted to a modest double back home.
“Cheers,” he said, offering his glass for a clink. “You know what’s great about international travel, Dan? Meeting folks from back home. Folks you’d never give a second thought to if you ran into them stateside.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Take us, for example. If we weren’t in this toilet of a country, we’d never be friends. I’m a Nixon Republican, and I’ll bet you voted for McGovern.”
“That’s true, Russ. But I’d rather you didn’t refer to India as a toilet.”
He laughed out loud. “See what I mean? I should’ve known you’d say that. It’s to your credit, Dan. I respect a man who’s not afraid to scold a guy who’s just bought him a quadruple whisky.”
I offered to pay for my own drink. His, too.
“Now you’ve gone and got offended,” he said. “I was only making a little fun. I like you, Dan. I promise not to disparage our hosts.”
“Okay,” I said. “And, yes, I did vote for McGovern. Campaigned for him, as a matter of fact. Canvassed the rich suburbs in Connecticut and phoned about a million voters.”
“And I paid several hundred bucks to eat rubber chicken at more than one Nixon fundraiser.”
Starting to feel the effects of the scotch, I leaned in and smiled at my new acquaintance. “Tell me the truth, Russ. You gotta admit he was a crook, right?”
“Whether or not he was a crook doesn’t matter. For me, Nixon was everything McGovern was not. And that’s what’s important. We take the bad with the good, because we think it’s a lot better than the alternative.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.
“Really? Would you vote for Teddy Kennedy? After Chappaquiddick?”
“Over Nixon? Yes.”
“You prove my point, Dan.” He raised his glass again. “It ain’t what he did wrong that matters. It’s what he did right.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “But I’m not that cynical yet. And, of course, the tragedy for you guys is that Watergate was unnecessary. Nixon was going to beat McGovern like a rug no matter what. And he did. If they’d been smarter, Tricky Dick would still be in the White House.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” he said. “Ford’ll do. Provided he can get himself reelected next year.”
I pointed out that Ford had never actually been elected president.
“Touché.”
Our conversation turned to less-contentious topics.
“You see that woman over there?” he asked me in a low voice. “At the table by herself. The blonde with the brushed-out hair? Like Farrah Fawcett.”
“The one in the green-flowered dress? She’s the only blonde in here.”
Harlan aimed a long gaze at her. It was as if he was trying to decide whether to answer me or send her a drink.
“It pains me to tell you she was giving you—not me—the eye. The sad thing about being a tight-assed Republican in a dark suit and wingtips is that hot numbers like that blonde don’t give us a second look. What say I ask her to join us?”
“Why would she want to do that?” I said. But before I knew what was happening, Harlan had pushed himself out of his seat and marched over to her table.
She frowned at him. And why not? A middle-aged man with a brush cut and a narrow black tie interrupts your privacy to propose God knows what? I watched. He stood there, bending slightly forward to speak to her as she squinted in a bemused manner, a cigarette smoldering in her hand.
Then—Jesus Christ—Harlan turned and pointed to me. What the hell was he saying? The woman leaned in her chair to see around his broad hips and focused her gaze on me. I looked away. Too late. This was humiliating. Even worse, the next moment, Harlan was waving me over to join them.
I pretended not to see. I could always say I was nearsighted. But if the mountain will not come to Muhammad … Harlan and the pretty blonde appeared before me.
“Taken Sie a seat, Fräulein,” he said in God-awful German, offering the chair next to me. I rose to my feet until she’d sat. Then he turned to me. “What’s wrong with you, Dan? Didn’t you see me waving?”
“Sorry. I’m nearsighted.”
Harlan took the chair on the other side of the young lady and signaled to the waiter. Another round of drinks was soon on its way. The blonde was drinking Lillet Blanc.
“Dan, this is … Sorry, what did you say your name was?” he asked her.
She rolled her eyes. “Birgit Fuchs.”
“Fuchs? That’s a funny name.”
Another frown from our guest. “It’s not a funny name. It means fox.”
Harlan slapped the table, causing my glass to jump. “It suits you perfectly,” he said in a booming voice. “You’re a foxy lady.” He chuckled at his wit.
“I think I’ll talk to your friend,” she said.
The waiter returned, performed his act with the drinks, and withdrew. Now that we were all friends, Harlan flashed his brightest smile at her.
“What’s a foxy chick like you doing in Bombay?”
Her full lips were painted pink, her eyelashes coated with heavy mascara. She wore a narrow emerald-green choker around her neck and a green headband in her shag-cut to match her short dress.
“Right now?” she answered, her accent clipped and precise. “I’m wishing to be elsewhere.”
I laughed and raised my glass to her. She smiled at me, pretty blue eyes twinkling in the low light.
Over the next hour, we chatted about my job and hers. She was a stewardess for Lufthansa. Harlan offered the tired old standby, “Coffee, tea, or me?” She didn’t get it. We didn’t discuss Harlan’s work. He insisted the details of corn cultivation would only “bring us down.” His words. Birgit needed no convincing. I found her to be sharp and well informed about world events. She was twenty-seven, spoke German, English, and French, skills that surely came in handy for a stewardess. Especially in the first-class cabin of the long-haul routes that she worked.
“Don’t airline crews usually stay near the airport?” I asked.
“Yes, but they canceled our flight this morning. This Emergency. I’m here for three days more. And since there’s nothing to do near the airport, I came here.”
“All the better for us,” offered Harlan.
“What do you do for fun in Bombay?” she asked me, ignoring him.
“Mostly, I go to the office and come home.”
“That’s sad,” she said. “You should explore the city. Have you seen the temple caves at Elephanta? Maybe we could visit them on Saturday?”
I blushed. “The Emergency is big news right now. I won’t have time to take the whole day for that.”
“Maybe a party, then? Do you go to parties?”
I thought of Willy Smets. And Sushmita. Much more interesting to think of her. But they were in Poona. I wasn’t sure when they’d be back in Bombay or if they were planning any parties. Unlikely. There was Ashok Pethe’s dinner the next week, of course, but Birgit would be long gone by then.
Harlan offered to take her to see the elephants.
“Elephanta,” said Birgit. “It’s an island.”
“Fine. Or we could have a party in my room.”
“Can you call it a party if you’re the only person there?”
I laughed so hard, some of my drink came out my nose. I coughed for the next five minutes. Harlan took her joke pretty well, considering how devastating it was.
The waiter appeared above us to say the permit room was closing. He presented the bill. Harlan wanted to know whatever had happened to last call. He was pretty drunk by then, but signed the charge to his room without even checking the total.
Harlan was on the eleventh floor. My room was on the ninth, Birgit’s on the fifth. When the lift stopped on the eleventh, he stumbled out, waving to us over his head without turning to look back. The doors closed and the next stop was nine. I glanced at my watch. It was a little after midnight. The doors rolled open, and I told her this was my stop. She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Gute Nacht, Dan,” she said, an adorable smile on her pink lips.
The doors closed and the lift was gone. Was that flirting?
The first girl I’d ever slept with had told me I was so dense I needed a ton of bricks to fall on my head to get the message. Then she’d pulled her sweater over her head and wrapped me in a sloppy kiss.
CHAPTER SIX
FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 1975, 2:09 P.M.
On my morning run to Marine Drive and back, I’d seen people heading to work. At least the ones who hadn’t been arrested. The buses and trains were running again. But life in the city was tense.
