other kinds of business, lit by paraffin lamps, with small clusters of people in front. But the Hotel Khajuraho had a small illuminated sign and opened
almost on the corner of a street with brick buildings, and the lobby, if you could call it that, was merely ambiguous without being sordid. It was a small dark room with a high counter like the
bars in English pubs; at each end of the counter were two lamps with red shades and behind it was an old woman. She wore a gaudy sari and her nails were painted blue; by the looks of her she could
have been European, although on her forehead she wore one of the many marks that Indian women do wear. I showed her my passport and told her I’d booked by telegram. She nodded and began to
copy from my passport making a great show of how careful she was being, then she turned the paper round for me to sign.
‘With bathroom or without?’ she asked, and told me the price.
I took a room with a bathroom. I had the impression she spoke with a slight American accent, but I didn’t go into it.
She told me the room number and handed me the key. The keyring was made of transparent plastic with a design inside of the kind you might expect in a hotel like this. ‘Do you want
dinner?’ she asked. She looked at me suspiciously. I got the message that the place was not usually used by Westerners. Naturally she was wondering what I was doing there with hardly any
luggage after having cabled from the airport.
I said yes. Not that eating in the hotel was a particularly pleasant prospect, but I was very hungry and it didn’t seem a good idea to start wandering around the area at this hour.
‘The dining room closes at eight,’ she said. ‘After eight it’s room-service only.’
I said I’d prefer to eat downstairs; she led me to a curtain on the other side of the lobby and I went through into a small vaulted room with darkly painted walls and low tables. The
tables were almost all free and the light very dim. The menu promised an infinite variety of dishes, but on asking the waiter I discovered that just that particular evening they were all off.
Except for number fifteen. I dined swiftly on rice and fish, drank a warm beer and went back to the lobby. The woman was still on her seat and seemed intent on arranging some coloured stones on a
kind of mirror. On the small sofa in the corner, near the main door, sat two very dark young men, wearing Western style dress, with flared trousers. They acted as if they hadn’t noticed me,
but I immediately sensed a certain unease. I went up to the counter and waited for her to speak first. Which she did. She said some numbers in a neutral detached voice; I didn’t get exactly
what she meant and asked her to repeat. It was a price list. The only figures I understood were the first and the last; from thirteen to fifteen years old, three hundred rupees, over fifty, five
rupees.
‘The women are in the lounge on the first floor,’ she finished.
I took the letter from my pocket and showed her the signature. I had memorized the name, but I preferred to let her see it written so that there would be no misunderstanding. ‘Vimala
Sar,’ I said. ‘I want a girl called Vimala Sar.’
She threw a quick glance at the two young men sitting on the sofa. ‘Vimala Sar doesn’t work here any more,’ she said. ‘She’s left.’
‘Where did she go?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but we have prettier girls than her.’
The situation didn’t look promising. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the two youths shift a little, but maybe it was just an impression.
‘Find her for me,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll wait in my room.’ Fortunately I had two twenty-dollar bills in my pocket. I laid them among the coloured stones and picked
up my suitcase. As I was climbing the stairs I had a small inspiration dictated by fear. ‘My embassy knows I’m here,’ I said in a loud voice.
The room looked clean. It was painted a light
almost on the corner of a street with brick buildings, and the lobby, if you could call it that, was merely ambiguous without being sordid. It was a small dark room with a high counter like the
bars in English pubs; at each end of the counter were two lamps with red shades and behind it was an old woman. She wore a gaudy sari and her nails were painted blue; by the looks of her she could
have been European, although on her forehead she wore one of the many marks that Indian women do wear. I showed her my passport and told her I’d booked by telegram. She nodded and began to
copy from my passport making a great show of how careful she was being, then she turned the paper round for me to sign.
‘With bathroom or without?’ she asked, and told me the price.
I took a room with a bathroom. I had the impression she spoke with a slight American accent, but I didn’t go into it.
She told me the room number and handed me the key. The keyring was made of transparent plastic with a design inside of the kind you might expect in a hotel like this. ‘Do you want
dinner?’ she asked. She looked at me suspiciously. I got the message that the place was not usually used by Westerners. Naturally she was wondering what I was doing there with hardly any
luggage after having cabled from the airport.
I said yes. Not that eating in the hotel was a particularly pleasant prospect, but I was very hungry and it didn’t seem a good idea to start wandering around the area at this hour.
‘The dining room closes at eight,’ she said. ‘After eight it’s room-service only.’
I said I’d prefer to eat downstairs; she led me to a curtain on the other side of the lobby and I went through into a small vaulted room with darkly painted walls and low tables. The
tables were almost all free and the light very dim. The menu promised an infinite variety of dishes, but on asking the waiter I discovered that just that particular evening they were all off.
Except for number fifteen. I dined swiftly on rice and fish, drank a warm beer and went back to the lobby. The woman was still on her seat and seemed intent on arranging some coloured stones on a
kind of mirror. On the small sofa in the corner, near the main door, sat two very dark young men, wearing Western style dress, with flared trousers. They acted as if they hadn’t noticed me,
but I immediately sensed a certain unease. I went up to the counter and waited for her to speak first. Which she did. She said some numbers in a neutral detached voice; I didn’t get exactly
what she meant and asked her to repeat. It was a price list. The only figures I understood were the first and the last; from thirteen to fifteen years old, three hundred rupees, over fifty, five
rupees.
‘The women are in the lounge on the first floor,’ she finished.
I took the letter from my pocket and showed her the signature. I had memorized the name, but I preferred to let her see it written so that there would be no misunderstanding. ‘Vimala
Sar,’ I said. ‘I want a girl called Vimala Sar.’
She threw a quick glance at the two young men sitting on the sofa. ‘Vimala Sar doesn’t work here any more,’ she said. ‘She’s left.’
‘Where did she go?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but we have prettier girls than her.’
The situation didn’t look promising. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the two youths shift a little, but maybe it was just an impression.
‘Find her for me,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll wait in my room.’ Fortunately I had two twenty-dollar bills in my pocket. I laid them among the coloured stones and picked
up my suitcase. As I was climbing the stairs I had a small inspiration dictated by fear. ‘My embassy knows I’m here,’ I said in a loud voice.
The room looked clean. It was painted a light
Similar Books
