The Elephanta Suite Read Free

to tell from their manner whether they were offended and abruptly ducking out or else actually meant what they said. It was a kind of inscrutability he had not associated with Indians. He was impressed.
    "He seemed nice," Beth said.
    "Nice doesn't seem like the right word for Indians," Audie said. "It's a little too bland. Lavish, outlandish, pious, talkative, overbearing, in your face, slippery, insincere, holy—I'm thinking they are Indian words. That talk about drinking number one—did you ever hear anything like it?"
    "I wasn't listening. I thought he was handsome. That's the trouble with you—you expect them to make sense."
    "What do you do?"
    "I look at them talking. I don't listen. Didn't you notice he had lovely eyes?"
    They had gotten up and were leaving the table when they heard a sharp "Hello." An Indian man was bowing, another one who'd materialized next to them. He was carrying a clipboard.
    "Doctor," Beth said—she had forgotten his name, but he too wore an Agni nameplate, lettered
Nagaraj.
"Doctor Nagaraj."
    He had said that he would see them at dinner, and they had forgotten they'd promised they'd see him. But he was unfussed, saying "Not to worry" as they apologized, and again Audie smiled at his inability to read the man's mood—whether or not he minded their having forgotten him.
    "We've already eaten," Audie said, seeing the waitress approach, and he noticed it was the girl who had seated them, Anna. She held three menus and stood next to the table, looking serene, patient, attentive. She had a pale, round, Asiatic face, like a doll, her hair in a bun, drawn back tight, giving her prominent ears. She was small, quick to smile when she was smiled at.
    "Is that short for something—maybe Annapurna?"
    "No, sir. Mother of Mary. I am Christian, sir."
    "Imagine that."
    "Anna Hunphunwoshi, sir. From Nagaland, sir. Kohima, sir. Very far, sir."
    "I've seen you in the spa."
    "I also do treatments in daytime, sir."
    "Are you eating, doctor?" Audie said.
    "Thank you, no. I don't take food after six p.m." He spoke to Anna. "I will take some salted lassi."
    "We should follow your example," Beth said.
    "As you wish."
    "Three of those, Anna, please."
    "Thank you, sir." She stepped silently away, clutching the menus.
    "Where did you say you went to medical school?" Audie asked the doctor.
    "Ayurvedic Institute in Mangalore."
    "That makes you a doctor?"
    "Ayurvedic doctor, yes."
    "Can you practice outside India?"
    "Where Ayurvedic medicine is licensed, indeed, I can practice Ayurvedic without hindrance," Dr. Nagaraj said. "May I see your right hand, sir?" And when Audie placed his big hand in the doctor's warm slender hand, the doctor said, "Just relax," and scrutinized it, and made some notes on his clipboard.
    "That Indian script looks like laundry hanging on a clothesline," Audie said.
    The doctor, intent on Audie's palm, said nothing. And even when the waitress returned with the three tumblers of lassi, he went on studying the big splayed hand. He made more notes and, what was disconcerting to Audie, he wrote down a set of numbers, added more numbers to them, subtracted, multiplied, got a total, then divided it and underlined the result. Still holding Audie's palm, the doctor raised his eyes and did not smile.
    "You had a hard life until age thirty-five," Dr. Nagaraj said. "You prepared the ground, so to say. Then you reaped rewards. You can be helpful to a politician presently, but avoid it. Next ten years very good for name and fame. Madam?"
    He offered his hand to Beth, and she placed hers, palm upward, on top of his.
    "Those numbers," Beth said.
    "Good dates, bad dates, risky times."
    "How long will I live?" Audie said.
    "Until eighty-five, if all is observed," the doctor said without hesitating. He went back to examining Beth's palm and scribbling notes.
    "I don't want to know how long I'm going to live," Beth said. "Just give me some good news."
    "Happy childhood, but you have no children