They sat down in the sand, in the lee of the hut on its blind side, facing westwards over the beach and the cobalt sea. Over the yellow of the sand the deep blue was transmuted into emerald green. The deserted boat below had a high prow like a gondola, and the net was a muted sand-brown, faint as a mist against the gold.
They saw when they looked back over the dunes that the solitude was beginning to be peopled. Several family parties of Indian pilgrims and tourists had streamed out from the village, and were making their way at leisure towards the sinking sun. And there among them came the Bessancourts, Madame thrusting indomitably through the sand in her sensible sandals and her black
‘As a matter of fact,’ Priya said almost apologetically, ‘it almost always is cloudy. In the morning, too. Even if the day is very fine.’
The spectacle, nevertheless, was sufficiently arresting The clouds changed and dissolved in a multiplicity of colours and shapes, and at the fieriest moment of the sunset, over that dazzling, dark sea, they ripped themselves away on either side, and let the crimson eye burn through and set fire to the miles of shadowy sand and the upturned, devout faces. For a few moments the dunes were molten. Then the great eye closed again, and the clouds banked low, touching the sea; and quite suddenly it was more than halfway to being night.
The bead-sellers had left them by then to go and tout for a few more sales among the pilgrims; but when they turned back towards the hotel and the village, one of the boys came trotting back and re-attached himself, making gay conversation with Purushottam all the way back to where the dunes dived headlong to the submerged road. Then he suddenly salaamed, and made off at a brisk trot towards the village, taking it for granted that his friends would turn aside into the hotel garden.
‘Let’s go on to the temple and the memorial,’ Dominic suggested. ‘There’s plenty of time, no need to go in yet.’
It was very easy. They were ready to fall in with any plan that kept them outdoors in this mild, pleasant evening, and a part of this curious holiday scene. No one needed any persuading even when he proposed that they should forego dinner at the hotel, and eat like the pilgrims who thronged the forecourts of Kumari’s temple. There were stalls selling every conceivable kind of spice, hot food, soft drinks, fruit, rice, various breads and in particular the highly-coloured and highly-sugared sweets that proliferate everywhere in India. After the dunes, the village was a revelation, crowded, busy, noisy and gay, a twilit fairground soon sparkling with little lanterns. Both village and temple stood on the levelled strata of the rocks, as near kin to ocean as to land. The sound of surf was a continuo to the sound of so many voices.
Afterwards they went, among many others, to the highly-polished blue-and-white plastic memorial, and climbed to the base of its white, lotus-bud-shaped tower to look out over the sea. A few child beggars came pestering, the first they had seen here; naturally they made their base where the foreign tourists were most likely to be found in profitable numbers. Purushottam bore with them for a while, and then gave them some small coins and ordered them crisply away, and they removed themselves without resentment, grinning.
‘They do quite well here,’ said Priya practically. ‘Where there are pilgrims there must be some tender consciences, and the easiest way to peace of mind is to give. It is a fairly cheap way to acquire merit.’
The fairground showed no signs of closing down with nightfall. When they had walked themselves into a pleasant weariness, the village was as gay as ever; and when at last they turned back towards the hotel, the lighted stalls were still twinkling behind them like terrestrial stars.
Madame Bessancourt was installed in the foyer with her knitting, now a formidable roll of blue moss-stitch. She saw them come in from the night, and made them her invariable brisk bow over the flashing needles. Her smile was immemorial France, friendly but self-contained. The three who knew her halted to exchange the customary courtesies; Purushottam, after a quick glance, went on to the desk like a conscientious guide, and collected the keys.
‘I saw in the newspapers,’ she said, putting down her needles momentarily into her lap, ‘about the death of your friend. I am very sorry. When Romesh told me you were here, I hoped to see you again, and at least express my sympathy. I know well there is no more one can do. The death of the young cannot be made good by anything the old may do or say. I have experienced it. But for my husband and myself, I offer you our sincere sorrow.’
There were no evasions about Madame Bessancourt. She looked them in the eyes, one by one, and her own eyes were as steady and dark as the rocks under Cape Comorin.
They told her she was very kind, and could find almost nothing else to say. To comment on the beauties of the Cape and the coast, after that direct assault, seemed meaningless. But she was not curious about their presence here, or about the new member they had acquired in place of Lakshman, or about any item of what was essentially their business. She had said her say and done her duty. After a few civil exchanges they said good night, and moved on to join Purushottam, who was waiting with the keys.
On impulse, Dominic turned back. There was never any harm in checking credentials.
‘Madame – Romesh tells me you’ve taken him on to travel with you as far as Dindigul.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her needles clicking again. ‘He asked us. And it is a very little thing to do for him. I only hope there will really be a job for him there, since we are not in a position to provide one. He seems a good boy.’
That was all he had had to ask, but for some reason he still lingered. ‘You’re going on to Pondicherry?’
‘Yes. It is not so far now, we don’t really need a third driver, but it satisfies him that he’s doing something for his keep. Two days’ drive, would you say?’
‘Or three, as you feel inclined. I suppose it must be about three hundred and forty miles or so. Will you be making an early start tomorrow?’
‘No, we want to have a look at the village and the temple in the morning. We have plenty of time.’
‘And after Pondicherry?’
‘Our tour ends with Pondicherry,’ she said. Her fingers, broad and strong and brown, halted on the needles. She looked up at him with a shrewd smile. ‘I think you must find it a little strange that two elderly people like my husband and myself should suddenly leave our provincial town and come here to India like this. No, no, please don’t apologise, it is very natural. Sometimes I find it a little strange myself. Monsieur Bessancourt and I had a son, you see – our only child, and born rather late in our lives. He was a student of architecture. Three years ago he came out here to join the international team which is working on the first stages of Auroville. You have heard of Auroville?’
