Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend (15 page)

Outskirts of Pondicherry. The map fastened in the back of the city guide indicated they were coming in on Jawaharlal Nehru
Street, apparently one of the main thoroughfares. Michael decided against staying at the ashram’s guest house, mostly because
he wasn’t sure how Jellie might feel if he suddenly showed up. If she saw him before he saw her, she might retreat with whatever
secrets she carried and become impossible to find once she knew he was here looking for her.

The Grand Hotel d’Europe at Number 12 Rue Suffren was in the same general area as most of the ashram’s workshops and not far
from the guest house. It was run by an old Frenchman, a Monsieur Maigrit, according to the guide. Michael suspected the food
would be continental, which suited him fine, since he tended to burn down pretty fast on a straight Indian diet.

Michael motioned for the driver to pull over and showed him the map. The driver had trouble reading it, started talking rapidly,
pointing ahead. Michael let him go on, and they halted at a busy street corner where two hundred bicycles waited for a green
light. The driver got out with the map and talked to several men standing in front of a tea shop. Arms waved, heads shook,
hands pointed. All of this went on for a minute or two before the driver returned. He said something Michael didn’t understand,
zigzagging his hand, which Michael took to mean they should work their way through the city and then turn right.

That seemed to fit, based on the map. They plowed up the busy main drag of Pondy and eventually hit a dead end at Rue St.
Louis. The driver got out, went through the arms-head-hand language again, and came back to the car. A right turn, then skirting
a large park on whose benches sat both Indians and aging French Legionnaires by the looks of their caps. A few blocks farther
on another right, then a left. Painted on a building were the words
Rue Suffren.
Number 12 came up a half block later.

Michael knocked on the high wooden gate. An old Indian man in tan shorts and a white headwrap peeked out. Michael said, “Room?”

The gatekeeper glanced at the car and driver, then back at the tall American with wrinkled clothes and no luggage except a
knapsack. Almost reluctantly he swung the gate open and indicated Michael should come into the courtyard. It was an old building,
covered with vines and bougainvillea. Maigrit, Michael assumed it was him, came out of a doorway. Michael bowed slightly.
“Do you have a room for a tired traveler?”

Maigrit looked at him, said nothing. Michael had arrived without prior reservations, which was probably considered a serious
breach of decorum. Michael didn’t speak much French, having forgotten most of what he’d learned as part of his Ph.D. language
requirement. But he smiled the good midwestern smile that seemed to get him by in most of the world and gave it a try: “Je
voudrais une chambre?”

Maigrit smiled back, recognizing incompetence but approving of the effort. Yes, a room was available for 150 rupees, about
9 dollars a night. Michael figured with advance reservations and a little haggling he could have knocked it down about a third
or maybe half, but he was tired, and the location suited him.

Maigrit informed him the daily afternoon water shutoff was in progress, so a bath was not possible, but the
boy,
who was about seventy-five, would bring a small bucket of water if Monsieur Tillman wanted to wash up. Michael thanked him
and said that would be appreciated. And was laundry service available? Shirts could be washed, ironed, and returned in four
hours for double the normal price. The regular price was six cents a shirt.

The boy delivered water, took the shirts, and Michael washed his face, then lay down on the bed and thought. Home was forty-six
hours behind, though his internal abacus lied and said it was longer, years maybe. A week ago he’d been sitting in his apartment
waiting for Jellie to return from Syracuse. Ten days ago she lay naked on his kitchen table while he rubbed red wine over
her breasts. “Jellie, are you somewhere on the other side of these walls, close by, living out what you never want me to know?”

M
ichael awakened a little before six when the old man rapped on his door. He’d slept for nearly four hours and got up feeling
hot and stiff and road weary. He opened the door, took the shirts, and gave the man a tip. The old man bowed and left, looking
back at Michael over his shoulder.

Michael checked the faucets. The water had come back on, and he was a little surprised when the left tap gave him a warm stream.
He ran a small tub, shaved, and got himself presentable with a clean body, clean shirt, and fresh pair of Levi’s.

The proprietor was on the veranda, reading a French newspaper. What Michael needed first was flexible transportation, a motorcycle.
He’d seen a number of smaller bikes when the driver brought him through town. Yes, a small motorcycle could be rented at a
location on Mahatma Gandhi Road. Mai-grit had the gatekeeper call a bicycle rickshaw for Michael and spoke in Tamil to the
rickshaw man, giving him the address. Maigrit said the ride would cost a quarter, and a dime tip would be about right.

Michael watched the bulging leg muscles of the man pedaling him through the streets of Pondicherry. Unlike some Westerners
who had never traveled in these places and frowned on the use of rickshaws as something next to slavery, Michael didn’t see
it that way. If you asked the rickshaw man how he felt about it, he wouldn’t understand the question. It was how he made his
living, and he was quite happy to deliver you somewhere for a fee. It was called participating in the local economy. As Michael
once told a colleague who disdained such colonialist behavior, “Pay the rickshaw man New York cab fare, maybe it will make
you feel more politically correct.” Taxi or rickshaw, it was all a matter of muscle power with differences in the degree of
it used.

India was, in many ways, an evening country. The heat and dust settled down late in the day, and the streets were crowded.
Merchants stayed open late. Time then for long, leisurely dinners and laughter in the cafes, commencing around nightfall.
The rickshaw man turned left on Sastry Street, pedaling a straight line toward MG Road. Michael sat there feeling exposed,
not wanting Jellie to see him coasting along through the streets of Pondicherry.

Christ, he thought, how strange this is. Here I am looking for a woman with whom I’ve made love, a woman who rolls in pleasure
beneath my touch and says over and over again how much she loves me. Yet I’m worried about her seeing me. It’s a curious world,
Michael Tillman. That’s what he said to himself as the rickshaw bumped along through the south India twilight.

The motorcycle rental outfit was located in a little garage next to the Cool Cat Coffee Bar with grease everywhere and parts
scattered about. Michael felt at home. Two machines leaned against the door, two more were torn down inside. Michael could
have either of the two by the door. He looked them over. They were rough as the roads they traveled and pretty well banged
up. The old Kawasaki looked like it might run, and after a few kicks he had it going. The proprietor stood watching him, hands
on hips, not smiling. Michael pointed to tools on the workbench.

Ten minutes later he had the chain tightened and the carburetor adjusted. The garage man was grinning. Technical competence
always brought respect. Michael paid a fifty-dollar deposit and recalibrated his mind to driving on the left-hand side of
the road, then took the Kawasaki out into evening traffic, running easy until he got the feel of driving in what always seemed
the wrong way.

He took the same route back to the hotel as he’d come, picking up two plastic containers of bottled water on the way, and
parked the bike in the courtyard. Tonight he’d walk. When the search needed to be expanded or he had to get somewhere in a
hurry, the bike would take him there.

Maigrit greeted him and said what a handsome machine Michael had found. Michael took out the picture of Jellie and said he
was looking for her.

Maigrit looked at it, then at Michael, and asked,
“Amour?”
Michael smiled and nodded. Maigrit was sorry, but he’d never seen her. “There are many Western women who come here to participate
in the ashram. They look for comfort and inner peace, perhaps a new way of life.”

The Frenchman no longer operated a restaurant in his hotel, but if Michael wanted continental food, the Alliance Franchise
was not far, just opposite the Park Guest House. It was a club, though membership rules were not tightly enforced. Simply
walk through the gate, cross the courtyard, and go up the steps.

Michael thought twice about going there. He wasn’t too worried about running into Jellie, because he figured she wanted to
sink back into Indian ways and would take her meals at Indian restaurants or, more likely, cook for herself. But word moved
fast in these Indian towns, and he had a feeling the Western community would pass the news about a newcomer who wore jeans
and sandals and seemed to be looking for someone.

But he was hungry and wasn’t ready for Indian cuisine yet, so he walked through quiet streets in the direction the Frenchman
had directed him. A few people sat on steps in this section of the city, but most of the houses were behind high walls. Two
white men with shaved heads and wearing saffron-colored wraps, bare legs poking out from thigh level down, went by in the
opposite direction, paying no attention to Michael.

He turned left on Rue Bazare St. Laurent, missed his right turn on Rue Dumas, and came to Cours Chabrol—Beach Road—running
along the seawall. The night breeze was kind, and Michael stood in the shadows at the end of Rue Bazare St. Laurent without
crossing over to the seawall. The walkways were crowded with evening strollers. Off to his right, just up the road, was the
gated entrance to the Park Guest House, the ashram’s hotel.

When two Western women in Indian dress came along the sidewalk, he turned around, heading back up the street he had just come
down, feeling odd, as if he were involved in an international espionage operation. Jellie, what have you done to me? I was
content, if not supremely happy, before we met, and here I am walking the back streets of India looking for you, and in some
small part of me not wanting to find you, fearful of what you might say, of what you might tell me you are going to do with
the rest of your life.

A guard stood at the Alliance Franqaise’s gate. Michael pointed at his own chest, then pointed inside and said, “Restaurant?”

The guard nodded and motioned him through the gate. There were trees and flowers in the courtyard. Off to one side was a cement
platform where an Indian woman was dancing to the rhythm of a drummer sitting cross-legged in the shadows behind her.

No one else was in the courtyard, but he could hear an accordion playing a French song in the building ahead of him. Michael
watched the dancer for a moment. She was oblivious of him, stopping after a moment and speaking to the drummer, who then started
off again in a slightly different rhythm.

The first floor of the place had a unisex bathroom and a black-and-white photography exhibition hanging on its gray walls.
Music and laughter came from the floor above, and he went up the stairs into the restaurant. Half of it was covered, the rest
was open to the night. Waiters were moving rapidly around in white uniforms, and a young Indian in dark slacks and purple
shirt came toward Michael, speaking in French. Michael smiled and said, “Dinner, please?”

“Just one, monsieur?” His English was very good.

Michael nodded.

“Do you prefer indoors or outside?”

“Outside, please.”

The maitre d’ seated Michael at a small table off in a corner. Michael’s entrance caused a few curious heads to turn, but
the laughter and eating and drinking quickly resumed. He ordered beer and a chicken brochette from the open-flame barbecue
built into the wall across the room from where he was seated. Stars were out, the scent of jasmine came on the night wind,
and he sat there alone, staring at his hands.

The food was excellent, served with rice and French bread. And chocolate cake with good strong coffee afterward. He was starting
to feel somewhat whole again. On his way out, an older man had taken over the maitre d’ role. When Michael walked over to
him, the man smiled warmly.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?”

Michael told him it was very good, then showed him the picture of Jellie. The maitre d’ looked at it, then at Michael, repeated
those two moves, and stopped smiling.

“Have you seen her?” Michael asked.

The maitre d’ stared at him and didn’t answer.

“I’m looking for her; it’s very important I find her.”

The man lit a cigarette, looked at the picture again, then handed it back to Michael. “Long time ago, maybe.”

“How long? A week? How long?”

“Long time. Ten, fifteen years. It’s hard to say; the woman I’m thinking of was much younger. Excuse me, I have work to do.”

Michael took a deep breath and wondered. The man had looked at him and the photo, friendliness turning to curt dismissal afterward,
almost as if the maitre d’ recognized Jellie’s picture and wanted to be done with Michael as soon as possible. Michael walked
back to his hotel through dark, quiet streets, still wondering.

For two days he wandered Pondicherry with no organized search strategy. On the third day he took the bike out to Auroville,
but it was spread out over miles, little settlements and houses scattered about. If she was there, he’d never find her. In
early evenings he sat on the seawall near the ashram guest house and watched traffic coming for the evening meal. He tried
talking with the austere woman guarding the front desk of the guest house, but that was useless. People came there to get
away and be left alone. When Michael showed her the photo of Jellie, the woman shook her head and went back to her ledgers.

He was getting nowhere and asked Maigrit for directions to the college he’d read about in the guide. Maigrit ran his finger
along the street map, showing Michael the location and how to get there. Michael wheeled the Kawasaki out of the hotel courtyard,
kicked the starter, and rolled north through the city.