Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend (16 page)

The college was in a shabby section of Pondicherry. Cruising around the small campus, Michael saw a weathered sign reading
“Department of Management.” Time to flash the credentials. He introduced himself to a secretary, telling her who he was and
where he was from. This was a situation where titles would help. Indians loved credentials and respected professors only a
little less than credentials. She went down a hallway into an office, coming back in less than a minute, followed by a short,
round, Indian man in his fifties. He wore glasses and a necktie reaching about halfway down his chest.

Friendly smile. “Ah, Dr. Tillman, how good of you to call on us.”

He wanted to know all about Michael’s academic life. Michael ran the list of degrees and experience, impatient to get on with
the reason he’d come. But India observed its courtesies with a fair amount of pomp, and he was bound to reciprocate. Before
long they were joined by two economists, with tea served by the secretary shortly after. One of the professors excused himself,
saying he would return momentarily. When he did, a copy of
The Atlantic
was in his hand. It was opened to Michael’s article on tax incentives. He pointed to the article, then at Michael. “And did
you write this, Dr. Tillman?” Michael nodded. The professor smiled then, big smile. “Quite a brilliant piece of work. Very
nice indeed.”

Credibility had been established, Michael was on his home ground, and these were bright, decent people he was dealing with.
He told them about searching for Jellie, leaving out the background details, saying only it was extremely important he locate
her. They didn’t recognize her photo, but when Michael mentioned Jellie’s interest in anthropology, the department head called
to his secretary and spoke to her out in the hall.

“I have requested my secretary summon one of the anthropology professors to talk with you. There are many projects in anthropology
going on in Pondicherry. The French especially have strong interests in those areas, having established an institute some
years ago with which our college cooperates.”

In ten minutes a woman appeared in the office doorway. She was fortyish and wore a pink sari. The department head stood, introducing
her as Dr. Dhavale, professor of anthropology. The photo of Jellie, which was becoming a little shopworn after being held
by a hundred hands in the last few days, was lying on the desk. Immediately the anthropology professor picked it up, glanced
at it, then looked at Michael.

His heartbeat went up twenty points. “Is there any chance you know the woman in the picture?”

The professor’s face was cautious. “You say your name is Tillman? Michael Tillman?”

“Yes.”

“From a place called Cedar Bend?”

His pulse jumped another ten points. “Yes.”

“May Dr. Tillman and I have words in private, please?” She was addressing the department head.

“Oh, yes, of course, Dr. Dhavale. Dr. Tillman, could we impose upon you to give a lecture or two while you are in town? I
know our students and faculty would very much appreciate it.”

They’d been helpful. Saying no was a problem, a matter of both courtesy and gratitude. “Dr. Ramani, I will be happy to do
that sometime. First, however, I must not delay in finding Mrs. Braden. When I have done that, may I contact you and set up
the lectures if I am going to be in Pondicherry?”

“Yes, yes, certainly. We understand, though we are disappointed you must hurry off. Please let us know when you can lecture
for us, and we will set up a very nice afternoon with a reception afterwards.”

Michael said he’d do that and followed Dr. Dhavale out of the building across a courtyard into another building, where her
tiny office was located. For the first time in seventy-two hours he did not feel tired.

She sat across her desk from him, black eyes bold and cool, sizing him up. “Jellie Markham and I became friends years ago,
during the time she was here for her thesis work.” She used Jellie’s maiden name and the French pronunciation with the soft
j— JahLAY—for her first name. “We have corresponded with each other through the years and have remained close.”

Michael said nothing but began to understand how dumb he’d been for the last three days, using Jellie’s married name and the
American pronunciation of her Christian name. Even if someone had known her, they wouldn’t have recognized the names he was
giving them if she’d assumed the French version when she lived in Pondicherry. And that would make sense, given the heavy
French atmosphere permeating the city.

“Dr. Dhavale, I’m forty-three. It took a lot of years for me to be able to feel about someone the way I feel about Jellie.
I care for her, I need to find her, I need your help to do it.”

The anthropologist studied him as if she were deciding on a final course grade. “I do not wish to violate her confidence,
so I’m not sure of how much to say, Dr. Tillman. But I know Jellie has strong feelings for you. She has lived a complicated
life, more complicated than you can imagine. But those details are for her to tell you when she chooses. She sent a letter
to you, giving you my name and address in case you wanted to contact her. But I don’t think she anticipated you would show
up on my doorstep. Did you receive her letter?”

“No. I must have left before it arrived in Cedar Bend. I found you quite by accident.”

“This is very difficult for me, Dr. Tillman, please understand that. I want to help you, but I do not wish to upset Jellie
and ruin our friendship by saying what I shouldn’t. I know she felt bad about not saying a proper good-bye to you.” Chitra
Dhavale looked out the only window in her office, dusty window, then turned back to Michael. “She left several days ago for
Thekkady. Do you know of it?”

“No.”

“It is a village quite near a beautiful place called Lake Periyar. Jellie told me you spent time in south India, so I thought
you might have heard of it. She is staying with people named Sudhana who live in the countryside near Thekkady.”

“May I ask what she is doing there? Do you know?”

“Yes, I know, but that is part of what is not my place to tell you, and I am afraid I have already violated her confidence
by saying what I have said.”

“What is the best way to Thekkady? The best route?”

“You could go back to Madras and fly to Cochin or Madurai, taking a car after that. Perhaps a better, though more tiring way
is to take the early afternoon train out of Pondicherry. It is a meter-gauge railway, so you ride it just down to Villupuram
Junction, which is approximately forty kilometers from here. From there you take the
Trivandrum Mail
southward and get off in Madurai. After that you can either take a bus or hire a car and driver to take you on to Thekkady.
It is an arduous trip, Dr. Tillman, but it is probably the quickest route. Your other alternative, flying out of Madras, may
be frustrating. You might arrive there and not be able to find a seat on a flight for several days.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s a little before twelve. If you hurry, Dr. Tillman, you can catch the one o’clock train to Villupuram.
I have a feeling you are anxious to be on your way, am I not correct?” She gave him a warm, Indian-woman smile. “If you find
Jellie Markham, please tell her of my distress over this and ask her to forgive me if I have done wrong by telling you where
she is.”

“I will. Thank you, Dr. Dhavale.”

As he went out her office door, Chitra Dhavale said, “Dr. Tillman?” He turned, paused.

“Jellie may be using the name Velayudum instead of Braden or Markham. Don’t ask me why. Just accept what I have told you.
And I should add this: If you find her, things may seem somewhat strange and perhaps quite disappointing, or at least unsettling
to you. As I said before, Jellie has lived a complicated life.”

So it was the
Trivandrum Mail
south to Madurai and a car westward after that.

T
hekkady lies on the border between the states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala, in the high country of southwest India. On the edge
of town is a gate across the road, a red bar that reminded Michael of the old Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. The driver halted
and went into a small office near the road. Any moment Michael expected to hear Richard Burton’s voice speaking the words
from a John Le Carré novel, something about a man coming in from the East tonight.

All hell broke loose in the office. The driver showed his papers, but apparently crossing from one state to another in this
area was pretty much the same as going from one country to the next. From what Michael could make out, the Kerala authorities
refused to honor the much trumpeted, all-India driver’s license.

Michael got out, leaned against the car. More words that turned into shouting and what sounded like threats. He pointed to
the bar, lifted his knapsack, and asked with sign language if he could cross. It was more complicated than he’d thought, requiring
a twenty-dollar bill in the hand of the border official to get him through after paying off the driver. Baksheesh, it’s called,
and it was everywhere and always had been.

Cool mountain air and thin yellow sunlight, quiet village in midafternoon, dusty road. Michael walked down it, his boots leaving
deep footprints. “Hey, boss, you go lake?” The young Indian man was standing by a jeep.

Michael looked at a name scribbled in his pocket notebook, then walked over to the jeep man and said, “Maybe. Find people
called Sudhana, first.”

“No, boss, we go lake only.” He whacked the side of the jeep. “Two hundred rupees for ride. Pretty place there.”

It might be pretty, but that wasn’t where Michael was going. He held up three one-hundred-rupee bank notes. “Find house of
Sudhana, first. Then two hundred more if I want to go to the lake.” It turned out maybe the jeep didn’t have to go to the
lake after all.

The young man was in no hurry and started talking to several others hanging around. They looked at Michael and laughed. The
young bastards were always brave in groups. They knew he had cash, big cash to them. Stuck in his belt, under his wrinkled
bush jacket, was a short-bladed hunting knife he carried in these parts of the world. He could feel the handle pressing into
his back.

A few years ago he’d held the knife against the throat of a taxi driver late one night in Mysore, north of here, when things
were getting rough and a crowd of young smart-asses was encouraging the driver to dump him and a female companion out of the
cab. When the Mysore driver felt the blade against his skin he let out the clutch as if he were having a muscle spasm, knocking
two of the smart boys on their rears.

An older man came out of a store, shouting. From what Michael could tell, the man owned the jeep and was ordering a general
shaping up and getting on with business. There was chatter in multiple dialects, the name
Sudhana
mentioned several times. The older man sketched on a piece of cardboard and handed it to the younger one, who had called
Michael “boss.” He walked over to the jeep, grinning, patting the jump seat, and motioning with his head for Michael to climb
in. The young one and another bundle of insolence about the same age got in the front seats.

They bounced off down the dirt road and turned south onto a different road running high above the eastern side of a fast mountain
stream. More turns, winding around a low mountain, then left up a smaller road. The driver slammed to a stop in front of a
house with tin patches on the sides and roof. “Sudhana, there—” He pointed. “Cigarettes?”

Michael gave them each an American cigarette, which was something of a luxury in these parts. Both lit up immediately, and
Michael walked on unsteady legs toward the house. The old doubts? Was this the place? Was he doing the right thing? Jellie,
don’t turn me away, don’t do that. Whatever is going on, let me be part of it.

The forehead and eyes of a crone appeared over a windowsill, then disappeared immediately when she saw the good-size white
man walking toward her. “Sudhana?” Michael called out. Nothing. “Jellie? Jel-lie, it’s Michael.” Still nothing. Then slowly
the door opened a crack, and the old woman looked out. She spoke rapidly in words he didn’t understand. “Jellie… JahLAY.
Jellie… JahLAY.” He said her name over and over again, then added the surname he had been told she might be using, and the
words were strange on his tongue. “Jellie
Velayudum.
JahLAY
Velayudum.”

The woman shook her head, spoke rapidly in a croaking voice, and pointed in a direction that looked as if it were inside the
house. Christ, had something happened or what? Was Jellie lying in there?

The driver swaggered over to where Michael was trying to climb the wall between cultures. “Cigarette, boss? I know what old
woman is saying.” More baksheesh. You get a little tired of it after a while. It’s not the money or the smokes, it’s the bloody
damned arrogance, the use of leverage.

Michael gave him half a pack of Merits. “She say woman called JahLAY Velayudum is at old hunting lodge in the middle of the
lake, place called Lake Palace Hotel. You want go there?”

Michael nodded, and the driver flipped his head toward the jeep. They went down around the mountain and got on the road along
the river again. Seven minutes later the jeep came over a rise, and Lake Periyar looked blue and calm in the distance.

The jeep driver dropped Michael off at the Aranya Nivas Hotel, a hundred yards from the lake-shore. He asked for more cigarettes,
and Michael told him to stuff it. Michael Tillman was tired of smart young bastards, whatever country they come from, and
said as much. He’d been too passive, too intent on finding Jellie, putting up with too much nonsense. The driver retreated
in the face of Michael’s anger, shrugged his shoulders, and backed his jeep out of the hotel driveway.

Michael went inside, grubby and tired. The woman at the desk was perfectly done, turquoise sari and a face that would launch
a thousand Porsches back in the States. She was polite and efficient, and he was ready for some of that. He asked about the
Lake Palace Hotel. She told him it was an old maharajah’s hunting lodge with only six guest rooms and that reservations were
handled here at the Aranya Nivas. While she flipped through a reservations book, Michael stared at a photograph on the wall
behind her. It was slightly faded, but still a beautiful shot of a tiger coming out of tall grass on a foggy morning and carried
the signature
Robert Kincaid.