The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  He crept stealthily around some flower pots and down a gravel pathway that led to a trellised gate. He opened the gate and found himself back on the street. He made his way to the front of the hotel, and once again looked through the glass door. The beautiful vision of last night had been replaced by an overweight middle-aged woman, who could only have been the manager.

  Richard checked his watch. He needed to collect his rucksack and be on his way if he hoped to see the fresco of the Madonna del Parto and still leave himself enough time to catch the train for Florence.

  He walked into the hotel more confidently this time, and strolled up to the counter. The manager raised her head, but didn’t smile. ‘Buongiorno,’ said Richard.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she replied, taking a closer look at him. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I left my rucksack here last night and I’ve come back to collect it.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this, Demetrio?’ she asked, not taking her eyes off Richard.

  ‘Si, signora,’ the porter replied, removing the rucksack from behind his desk and placing it on the counter. ‘This one, if I remember, sir,’ he said, giving Richard a wink.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Richard, who would have liked to give him a tip, but . . . he pulled the rucksack over his shoulder and turned to leave.

  ‘Did you stay with us last night?’ asked the manager just as he reached the door.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Richard, turning round. ‘Unfortunately, I arrived a little too late, and you didn’t have a room.’

  The manager glanced down at the register and frowned. ‘You say you tried to get a room last night?’

  ‘Yes, but you were fully booked.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ she said, ‘because there were several rooms available last night.’

  Richard couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

  ‘Demetrio,’ she said, turning to the porter, ‘who was on duty last night?’

  ‘Carlotta, signora.’

  Richard smiled. Such a pretty name.

  ‘Carlotta,’ the manager repeated, shaking her head. ‘I’ll need to have a word with the girl. When is she back on?’

  Nine o’clock, Richard almost blurted out.

  ‘Nine o’clock, signora,’ said the porter.

  The manager turned back towards Richard. ‘I must apologize, signor. I hope you were not inconvenienced.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Richard as he opened the door, but he didn’t look back for fear that she might see the smile on his face.

  The manager waited until the door was closed before she turned to the porter and said, ‘You know, Demetrio, it’s not the first time she’s done that.’

  CASTE–OFF*

  15

  THE DRIVER OF the open-top red Porsche touched his brakes, slipped the gear lever into neutral and brought the car to a halt at the lights before checking his watch. He was running a few minutes late for his lunch appointment. As he waited for the light to turn green, he noticed several men admiring his car, while the women smiled at him.

  Jamwal gently touched the accelerator. The engine purred like a tiger and the smiles became even broader. Far more men than usual seemed to be looking in his direction. As the light turned green, he heard an engine revving up to his left. He glanced across to see a Ferrari accelerate away before dodging in and out of the morning traffic. He put his foot down and chased after the man who had dared to steal his thunder.

  The Ferrari screeched to a halt at the next set of lights, only just avoiding a cow that was sitting in the middle of the road like a traffic bollard. Jamwal drew up by the side of his challenger, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The young woman seated behind the wheel didn’t give him so much as a glance, although he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  When the light turned green, she accelerated away and left him standing again. Jamwal threw the gear lever into first and chased after her, searching for even the hint of a gap in the traffic that might allow him to overtake her. For the next minute, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the horn as he swerved from lane to lane, narrowly missing bicycles, rickshaws, taxis, buses and trucks that had no intention of moving aside for him. She matched him yard for yard, and he only just managed to catch her up by the time she came to a reluctant halt at the next traffic lights.

  Jamwal drew up by her side and took a closer look. She was wearing an elegant cream silk dress that, like her car, could only have been designed by an Italian, although his mother certainly wouldn’t have approved of the way the hemline rose high enough for him to admire her shapely legs. His eyes returned to her face as she once again accelerated away, leaving him in her slipstream. When he caught up with her at the next intersection, she turned and graced him with a smile that lit up her whole face.

  When the lights changed this time, Jamwal was ready to pounce, and they took off together, matching each other cyclist for cyclist, cow for cow, rickshaw for rickshaw, until they both had to throw on their brakes and screech to a halt when a traffic cop held up an insistent arm.

  When the policeman waved them on, Jamwal took off like a greyhound out of the slips and shot into the lead for the first time. But his smile of triumph turned to a frown when he glanced in his rear-view mirror to see her slowing down and driving into the entrance of the Taj Mahal Hotel. He cursed, threw on his brakes and executed a U-turn that resulted in a cacophony of horns, shaking fists and crude expletives as he tried not to lose sight of her.

  He glided up to the front of the hotel, where he watched as she stepped out of her car and handed the keys to a valet. Jamwal leapt out of his Porsche without bothering to open the door, threw his keys to the valet, ran up the steps and followed her into the hotel. As he entered the lobby, she was disappearing into a lift. He waited to see which floor she would get out on. First stop was the mezzanine: fashionable shops, a hair salon and a French bistro. Would it be minutes or hours before she reappeared? Jamwal walked over to the reception desk. ‘Did you see that girl?’ he asked the clerk.

  ‘I think every man in the lobby saw her, sahib.’

  Jamwal grinned. ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘Yes, sahib, she is Miss Chowdhury.’

  ‘The daughter of Shyam Chowdhury?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Jamwal smiled again. A few phone calls and he would know everything he needed to about Shyam Chowdhury’s daughter. By the time they next met, he would already be in first gear. The only thing that surprised him was that he hadn’t come across her before. He picked up the guest phone and dialled a local number.

  ‘Hi, Sunita. I’ve been held up at the office, someone needed to see me urgently. Let’s try and catch up this evening. Yes, of course I remembered,’ he said, keeping a watchful eye on the bank of lifts. ‘Yes, yes. We’re having dinner tonight. I’ll be with you around eight,’ he promised.

  The lift door opened and she stepped out carrying a Ferragamo bag. ‘Got to rush,’ he said. ‘Can’t keep my next appointment waiting.’ He put the phone down, just as she walked past him, and quickly caught up with her.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you . . .’ he began.

  She turned and smiled sweetly, but did not stop walking. ‘It’s no bother, but I’m not looking for a chauffeur at the moment.’

  ‘How about a boyfriend?’ he said, not missing a beat.

  ‘Thank you but no. I don’t think you could handle the pace.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we try and find out over dinner tonight?’

  ‘How kind of you to ask,’ she said, still not slackening her pace, ‘but I already have a dinner date tonight.’

  ‘Then how about tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’

  ‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ he quoted back at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, as an attendant opened the door for her, ‘but I don’t have a day free before the last syllable of recorded time.’

  ‘How about a coffee?