Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 22: Athansor

Madhuri and I brought Attra into Mr. Prasad’s little hospital later that morning so that he could examine him closer. Harriet was finally sleeping.

We were able to use the front door this time, for by now police were standing guard. Word must have gotten to the town officials that their very important visitor had returned from her country outing and it would not do to have her pestered by reporters, now would it? It would not be a good reflection on the town that they could not control a few reporters; it could, in fact, make Madanapalle a laughingstock in these parts. Which most definitely must not happen.

Hence the two large, very dark men, with the power to arrest, apparently. A few reporters did remain, but they kept their distance. Two more policemen were sitting in a very old car, parked a little ways down the street from Madhuri’s gate, but in plain view, like a rusty threat. I silently thanked the mayor, or the chief of police, or whomever in city hall was responsible.

Attra was broken in three places and crushed in one, is how Mr. Prasad put it after his examination. By broken, he meant mangled ribs and vertebrae — perhaps as many as twenty were broken. By crushed he meant virtually severed. The bottom third of Attra’s body would be useless to him. There was too much nerve and muscle damage. Perhaps the muscle would eventually mend, but the nerves would not.

However — he said, somewhat surprised — none of the internal organs seemed to have suffered permanent damage. The heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys all seemed in place, and in working order.

Still, that silver lining notwithstanding, his professional recommendation was to put Attra to sleep.

“That is out of the question,” said Harriet, when I told her on our return.

“I know,” I said. “Though he will not be able to hunt,” I thought aloud more than anything else. “He’ll have to be cared for.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Harriet.

That was one of those comments you hear and yet don’t hear. I heard her fine, but I didn’t hear the depth with which she meant it.

“I was thinking of when we return,” I said. “He’s going to be quite a burden to Madhuri.”

“I was thinking of when we return as well,” said Harriet, and when I looked over at her I saw that she was dead serious about it.

We sat around the Acre that evening, Madhuri, Harriet and I. Attra was sleeping in Madhuri’s bed, still in a lot of pain, according to Mr. Prasad. Attra had yet to speak after the incident.

“But you don’t speak snake talk,” said Madhuri, ever practical.

“I can learn,” said Harriet. “I will learn.”

“You will bring him to New York?” said Madhuri.

“Yes.”

“It is cold there in the winters?”

“Not inside. Besides,” she added. “Pearly Soames had cobras, still has them, I guess. And he’s in New York, or near there at any rate.”

Madhuri didn’t understand, and for a moment, neither did I.

“The thief. Christmas morning,” Harriet said.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I turned to Madhuri. “Where we first met Athansor.”

She nodded.

“He did his for me,” Harriet said. “He almost gave his life for me.”

We both understood.

Then, as if reciting a faraway memory, Madhuri said, “In empty, indolent leisure no peace is found. Only in truthful work is peace attained.”

I looked up at Madhuri to see if she was addressing anyone in particular with that, or whether she was simply telling herself. It didn’t make sense to me. She was looking straight at Harriet and smiling.

“What made you say that?” said Harriet.

“Despite everything, you look more peaceful now than when you arrived,” said Madhuri. “Perhaps you have found a purpose?”

Harriet didn’t answer her question. Instead, she said, “Did you say that? I mean, did you think that up?” Harriet was still searching for right word. “Did you…,” she began again.

“Oh, no,” said Madhuri and laughed. “That is a poem by Tagore, the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. A man many times wiser than this old woman.”

“Tagore,” said Harriet. “I have heard of him.”

“Sometimes,” said Madhuri, “it seems as if the wisdom of many, many generations suddenly decides to collect and gather itself in one man, or woman. Tagore was such a man.”

“How did you say it?” asked Harriet.

“In empty, indolent leisure no peace is found. Only in truthful work is peace attained,” said Madhuri.

“What does indolent mean?” Harriet asked me.

“Idle,” I said. “Disliking work.”

“Indolent,” said Harriet, tasting the word. “In indolent leisure no peace is found.”

“In empty, indolent leisure no peace is found,” said Madhuri.

“In empty, indolent leisure,” said Harriet as if she had suddenly found a way to describe her current life. “No peace is found.”

“Only in truthful work is peace attained,” said Madhuri.

“Only in truthful work,” said Harriet.

I have never been able to pry any explanation, satisfactory or otherwise, out of the Madanapalle police, or out of the mayor’s office, as to what happened. Madhuri also tried several times, on my behalf, to find out how come, but she came up as empty-handed as I had.

Whether by a mix-up of schedules or a miscommunication, I don’t know — no one would take responsibility for it — but the following morning saw no police guard outside Madhuri’s house. Those few reporters that kept vigil still must have alerted their colleagues. Or perhaps they did not, theirs being a competitive livelihood, but word nonetheless got out, and by ten o’clock twenty-five or so reporters had gathered again — all apparently with reminders from their editors not to return empty-handed if they cherished their jobs — the bravest or nosiest of them now knocking insistently on the door.

“We know she’s in there. We just want to have a word.”

“There’s a mob of them out there,” said Madhuri from behind the curtain, looking out into her front yard.

I was connecting the telephone so that I could call the police and ask for assistance. “What is their number?” I asked.

Madhuri didn’t understand.

“The police?”

“I don’t know. I have never called them. Dial the zero and ask the operator.”

Harriet stood by the door to Madhuri’s room, where Attra was sleeping. She looked very concerned. “Perhaps I should see them.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I said. “There are too many of them out there. They’ll never let you go.”

“There are more people coming,” said Madhuri, looking out the window. “Gawkers,” she added.

“Miss Brown,” said the reporter just outside the door, still knocking, or perhaps kicking the door. “Just a word, Miss Brown. We just want a word.”

“Operator?” I asked when a young woman came on the line.

“Yes.”

“Could you please connect me to the police.”

“Certainly.” And the line when dead. Not even a dial tone. I tried again.

“Operator,” she said. The same girl.

“I got disconnected,” I said. “You were connecting me to the police.”

“Did you not reach them?” she asked.

“I got disconnected,” I said again.

“Sorry, sir. Here you go.” And the line went dead again. Completely.

Do they do this out of spite, I wondered, or out of ignorance?

I got her on the line again. “Please,” I said, “Miss, this is urgent. I need to speak to the police. What is their number, please.”

“I will connect you,” she said.

“No,” I said, “just give me their number, please.” But by that time the line had gone dead again. I looked at the receiver in disbelief.

“What is wrong with these telephone people?” I almost shouted in frustration.

“I don’t use the telephone,” said Madhuri.

I called back and asked for the number of the police. It was another woman this time, and she actually answered my question and gave it to me. “Do you want me to connect you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’ll call them myself.”

“Please yourself,” she said curtly.

“Miss Brown!” said the reporter by the door. “Miss Brown!” said another voice, too, louder. “Miss Brown. We know that you are here, and we wish to ask you just a few questions please, Miss Brown.”

I dialed the number the operator had given me and to my surprise it rang and was answered. It was, however, a young female voice that answered, which to my frame of mind did not bode well. “Police station, good morning.”

“We have an emergency,” I began.

“Just a moment,” said the young girl, and the line went dead.

The bang on the door was no longer a knock, it was a shoulder, a heavy one, trying to force it open.

“Oh, dear,” said Madhuri. Then to Harriet, “Stay with Attra, and close the door.”

The shoulder thudded against the door again, and this time it flew open, tearing with it part of the door jamb as the bolt splintered the wood from the force.

Suddenly the big man who had nearly killed Attra stood in the kitchen, with two or three reporters following.

“Get out,” yelled Madhuri. “Leave my house.”

Three more reporters came in, and the kitchen was suddenly crowded.

“Leave, or I will call the police.”

“Go ahead,” said the large man, confidently, and that was the answer that has disturbed me ever since. “Where is Miss Brown?” he said.

“She’s not here,” I said.

“Others say she is,” the reporter answered.

“Others are wrong,” I said.

“We’d like to make sure. See for ourselves,” he said.

“Get out, now,” said Madhuri. “Please.”

No one was listening to her, and there was little I could do to stop them. I realized I still held the receiver in my hand, so I replaced it.

They found her. “Look,” said one of them. “She’s with the snake. That snake you killed, you said.”

“Was as good as dead,” replied the big man.

“Miss Brown,” said the first voice. “So there you are.”

I worked my way through the reporters and into Madhuri’s room. “This is an outrage,” I said, not two inches from the face of the large man, who up close was not as tall as he appeared from a distance. Just large.

“It’s our job. Get out of the way.”

“No,” I said.

“Get out of the way, or I’ll make you.”

“No,” I said.

Questions had now begun to rain from the pack of reporters crowding the doorway and the hall outside Madhuri’s bedroom. Harriet looked afraid, but by her constant glances in his direction, I could tell she was more afraid for Attra than for herself.

Attra was awake now, understood what was going on, and tried to move. He could not. He wanted to help, but could not, that was plain.

I stood my ground with the large man. “I warn you,” he said, “for the last time. Get out of my way.” Spacing the words ominously.

I was about to say no again, when we both noticed the sudden stillness spreading from the kitchen to where we stood. The questions had ceased and many silent movements took place, as if people were getting out of the way.

Then I heard the sound of hooves on tile.

Athansor looked larger, perhaps because he was inside the small house. He pretty much filled the hallway. The large reporter faded back toward the end of the hallway, looking for something, cover. Afraid. There was something about Athansor that inspired fear. He looked displeased.

I knew why he was there, of course. He knew Harriet was in trouble. And so did Attra, head raised now, smelling with his tongue, perhaps sensing his attacker nearby, and again preparing to strike, broken or not.

“Come,” said Athansor from just outside Madhuri’s bedroom door, to me, to Harriet, to Attra. Then he retreated for the kitchen, for a little more room.

Harriet lifted Attra off the bed, gently, motherly, then followed me as I followed Athansor. Once in the kitchen, he kneeled again. Harriet handed Attra to me and climbed up on Athansor’s back. I handed Attra back to her, and then got up behind them.

Athansor rose. We crouched forward to clear the ceiling.

Many stunned faces still could not reconcile senses and logic: open mouths, wide eyes, keeping distances. Some even must have fled, for there appeared to be fewer reporters in the house now.

Madhuri and I looked at each other for a long time. Then she said, “Take care of them, Nachiketa.”

“I will,” I said.

“Goodbye,” she said to Harriet.

Harriet turned towards her — with difficulty, for she was also cradling Attra, as gently as she could. “Goodbye, and thank you,” she said.

“And to you, Attra,” said Madhuri. “Get well.”

And then Attra spoke for the first time since the attack. I could see that it hurt him to talk. “Madhuri,” he said. “Live well.”

Then Athansor moved.

There was no hard riding this time, no flying over fields and lakes, or lunging through foggy time, only the slow walk across the large kitchen floor and through the door to the salon beyond, four steps, perhaps five, across the salon floor and through another door which led out of Harriet’s bedroom in her 52nd Street apartment and into her sitting room — at a little after 2 in the morning, by her clock and the pitch darkness outside.

Athansor kneeled to let us off and said, “I don’t like doing this, it usually creates more trouble than it’s worth.”

I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about at the time, but I found out soon enough. Two days later most, if not all, of the papers reported that “Harriet Brown had vanished.”

Apparently, so the news stories went, she had been in India on a visit to Jiddu Krishnamurti’s mother, when suddenly she disappeared, in plain view of some local reporters.

Some local reporters, I thought. A houseful of alarmed ones.

Despite a quick and thorough investigation by the local police, no trace of her could be discovered.

There was no mention of white horses, however. I wondered how he pulled that off. But there was no way Athansor could hide the fact that he had, in fact, “vanished” her — and me, who incidentally got zero mention in these articles; well, luckily, actually.

No mention of a broken cobra, either.

For three days the press, who flew reporters to Madanapalle to “be on the scene,” was reminiscing about Harriet Brown’s career and her voluntary retirement from the glamor that she had helped create.

A crime was now assumed, and kidnapping was the one bandied about the most.

Harriet, meanwhile — the focus of all this journalistic attention — paid little, if any, attention to all of this. She was busy making Attra comfortable.

She had made him a bed out of comforters and blankets, which she placed on the sitting room floor. She brought him water, though no food yet. Attra could now drink, but not eat as yet; he was too bruised to swallow anything but water, and just wouldn’t hear about milk or juice or soup.

On the third day back, we heard a key in the front door, and before we had much time to react, Claire stepped in, followed by two men — one considerably taller than the other — in brown suits and brown overcoats, an FBI uniform of sorts.

It’s hard to tell who was more stunned. Us or them. Or Claire.

I don’t know how the FBI got involved, but they had discovered that Claire was Harriet’s housekeeper and had assumed she would have a key to the apartment. They were looking for clues to Harriet’s disappearance, and further assumed that her apartment might hold some. After all, Harriet was now an American citizen.

I think Claire actually dropped the keys on the floor, or was it her handbag? I’m not sure which, but I could tell that Harriet was probably the last thing she had expected to find on the sitting room floor.

“Claire,” said Harriet. “I’m glad you’ve come. I need some bandages and a good veterinarian.”

“What…” began Claire.

“And some cigarettes,” said Harriet. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

“What…” said Claire again, not understanding even vaguely. She looked around the room, recognized me — or not, hard to tell — and looked back at Harriet. Saw Attra, but I don’t think he registered at all. Then some professional section of her kicked in as she noticed where Harriet had dropped a pillow case on the floor, and she stooped to pick it up. She smoothed it with her hands and smelled it to make sure it was clean. Then she tucked it under her arm while her eyes were still trying to understand what they were seeing.

She looked at Attra again, and this time he registered.

“That…” she said.

“Yes, I know. It’s a snake.”

“It is a cobra.”

“I know that.”

“What is it doing here? You hate snakes.”

“I know that, too.”

“Miss Brown,” said the taller of the two agents.

Harriet looked from Claire to him.

“Yes.”

“You are not in India, then?”

As superfluous a comment as I’ve ever heard.

“No.”

And now I began to see what Athansor had meant by trouble. From what the man told us, the FBI, along with the press, had established that Harriet had flown to London, and from there, had flown with me to Madras. Had been met by reporters there, and had in fact gone on to Madanapalle. Denying having been in India was not an option. So, how did we get from there to here — without a trace — was the as yet un-voiced but very relevant question. And the answer, of course, could have nothing to do with a white horse.

Harriet looked at me, quite obviously passing the buck. She turned her attention back to Attra; for all intents and purposes, Claire and the two men might as well have ceased to exist, except that she did remind Claire that she “needed those things, now.”

The shorter of the two men, mostly silent up till now, finally voiced the question: “How did you two get back to New York?” Then he looked at Attra, and added, “With a snake?”

There was no explanation within reach, within eyeshot, within this sector of the known universe, and I said nothing for quite some time. Then I came up with something that sounded, to me, really lame.

“She has friends,” I said, sort of mysteriously.

Harriet looked up at that, first at me, then at the two men, as if her glance was confirming my statement and would brook no further questions.

“Would you care to elaborate on that a little?” said the shorter of the two.

“No,” said Harriet. And that, for the moment, was that. She was, after all, Harriet Brown.

“Well,” said the larger man, “we’re glad to see that you’re well and sound, Ms. Brown. By the way, do you have a permit for that snake?”

“I was just about to get one,” said Harriet, who managed to make it sound as if she would in fact have had one by now, were they not keeping her.

“Well, yes, okay then.”

Harriet had this amazing ability to exude the arctic, and she turned it on now, in spades. The two agents were not slow on the uptake, and apologized for the intrusion and prepared to leave. Claire, returning from putting the pillowcase back in the linen closet, saw the two men out, then returned ten minutes later with bandages and cigarettes.

“Do I need a permit?” Harriet asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

The veterinarian confirmed that yes, indeed, you do need a permit for poisonous snakes, and, by the way, how on earth did you manage to get it into the country?

“Friends,” said Harriet, who seemed to like that explanation.

“I will help you with the paperwork,” he said.

This man, as expensive and excellent a man as you could lay your hands on when it came to New York cats and dogs, had little to no experience with snakes, however, and referred us to a Mrs. Renshaw, at New York Animal Clinic on 33rd Street, whom Harriet had Claire call and ask to come to the apartment.

“She doesn’t make house calls,” Claire informed us after she’d hung up. “You’ll have to go there.”

“Ridiculous,” said Harriet. “Call them back.”

Claire did, and handed Harriet the phone.

The conversation was quite brief, and when Harriet hung up she said, a little taken aback, but not displeased, and with a smile: “She said, and I quote, ‘I do not care in the least who or what you are, if the animal can be moved at all, you move him here. And if it is not a sick horse, it can be moved.’ Period. End of quote.”

If Mrs. Renshaw, a corpulent woman in her mid-fifties with a grim but freckled face — her expression and her freckles belied each other constantly, in my mind — had heard about Harriet Brown at all, she did not let on. Harriet was just another unduly worried pet owner, as far as she was concerned, and let’s have a look at this thing.

“A cobra?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you.”

“Glands removed?”

“What glands?”

“Is he still poisonous?”

“Yes,” I offered.

Mrs. Renshaw turned to face me. I could not get over the freckles. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Unless you plan to give him to a zoo, you’re going to have to have them removed.”

“Out of the question,” said Harriet.

“It’s illegal,” said Mrs. Renshaw.

“I’m not removing any glands,” said Harriet, and started to turn on the cold again.

Mrs. Renshaw, impervious to frost apparently, rolled right on, “You either let me remove them or I won’t touch him.”

“Fine,” said Harriet. “Nachiketa, we’re leaving.” Then Harriet faced the freckled woman and asked, “Do you know of any good snake veterinarians?”

“I’m the only one,” she answered.

“In New York City? You have got to be kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, I’ll go to Los Angeles if I have to,” said Harriet, not backing down a bit. “Perhaps the snake veterinarians are less squeamish there,” she added.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Mrs. Renshaw, with a smile that looked like a frown, or the other way around. “It’s on your head, lady. I’m telling you, it is illegal.” Then she turned to Attra to examine him.

“Fine,” said Harriet.

“Who did this?” Mrs. Renshaw asked after a while, meaning the bandages and splints.

“Why? Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Looks like they were done by a pediatrician, not a vet,” she said.

“Well, actually,” I started.

“He was not a veterinarian?” asked Harriet.

“No,” I said. “Madhuri didn’t trust them. She would only let Mr. Prasad look at him.”

“Well, then,” said Harriet. “I trust Madhuri’s judgment.”

“Not that it’s a bad job,” said Mrs. Renshaw. “Just, well, it’s not perfect.”

“What can you do for him?” asked Harriet. “The doctor said that he would not be able to use the lower third of his body.”

“I can’t say for sure without an x-ray,” the veterinarian answered, “but I’m afraid it looks like he knew what he was talking about.”

Harriet didn’t answer, and neither did I.

The woman then had Attra x-rayed and did some additional tests, before she came back with a final verdict.

“Your doctor did well,” she began, but in a tone that did not spell good news. “He will probably mend,” then she paused before adding, “in places.”

“Meaning?” said Harriet.

“The doctor was right. Your snake will not be able use his lower third. He will have trouble moving about.”

“At all?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sure he can propel himself,” she said. “But not at all well.”

“An invalid,” said Harriet with uncanny precision.

Mrs. Renshaw looked at her without speaking for a while. Then said, “Yes, an invalid. He’ll need care. If, that is, he does mend.”

“Is there a question about that?” asked Harriet.

“With multiple fractures like this, there is always a question. There is always the question whether the snake wants to mend.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harriet.

“We sometimes get pet snakes, not cobras mind you, that have been run over by a car, virtually crushed, but they recover. We get others, a simple fracture, that do not. As if they know what’s in store for them, and cannot face life as an invalid.”

Harriet looked at me, then at Attra. Nothing was said.

Harriet then nodded in Mrs. Renshaw’s direction. “I’ll look after him.”

“I assume that you know how to care for cobras.” A statement that reeked of doubts.

“No,” said Harriet. “I hope you will show me.”

“I will do that,” said Mrs. Renshaw, “if you’re serious about this.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” said Harriet, and she clearly meant it.

“Well, then,” confirmed the vet.

She reset the splints, bandaged Attra up again, and wrote out a list of things for Harriet to get, which included a small children’s sand box, to serve as Attra’s facilities, as Mrs. Renshaw put it.

In the end, Mrs. Renshaw did make house calls after all, but only after hours, once the animal clinic was closed. She didn’t mind putting herself out for Harriet’s sake, but she was not going to take any time away from her other charges.

Over the next few days, Harriet probably learned more about snake care than she’d bargained for. Mrs. Renshaw was nothing if not thorough. Harriet, though, was pleased and quite appreciative.

In the end, I think curiosity got the better of Harriet. She just had to ask, for Mrs. Renshaw gave no indication of having a clue. “Don’t you know who I am?” she said.

And Mrs. Renshaw, with no change of expression, tending to Attra’s bandages before leaving for the night, answered, “Of course I do.”

This apparently didn’t quite convince Harriet.

“I’m Harriet Brown,” she said.

At this, Mrs. Renshaw carefully finished applying the final bandage, then turned to Harriet.

“Miss Brown,” she said. “The whole world knows who you are. But to me you’re only a concerned owner of a very sick cobra.”

“Thank you,” was all Harriet managed to reply. I think Mrs. Renshaw was very touched by that. I know I was.

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that there was a heat wave in New York that October, but since Harriet could not stand air conditioning, we suffered. Well, she suffered, it was tolerable to me, and outright comfortable for Attra.

Each night I prayed for some relief, for I am used to seeing the temperature drop with the fading light, but not so in this city. It stayed just as hot, just as humid all through the night, only for the sun to ratchet it up another notch come the next morning. Needless to say, I understood completely why Harriet preferred Switzerland or the Mediterranean to this. No one, surely, enjoyed this weather, except Attra, who — like something that needs baking to mend — seemed to be mending just fine except for the lower third of his body, which still hung useless and limp. He could not control any muscles below that final break, which indeed had severed the spine and most nerves.

It would not atrophy, though — his tail, as Harriet had started to call it — so we were told, but it would not be much more useful to him than just that: a tail.

A tail with a tail, Harriet said once to try to cheer him up. I translated and Attra actually saw the humor of that.

On the 18th of October, according to Lana’s call log, a little over a week after our return to Harriet’s apartment, I called my office in London to see if I still had a job. At this point I had been gone nearly three weeks without a word. Lana answered.

“Good God,” she said. “There you are. Is she all right?”

“Yes, Madhuri is fine,” I said, wincing a little at the original lie.

“We’re all worried,” she said. “Why didn’t you call?”

“It’s a long story.”

“It had better be good,” she said.

“It is,” I said.

“Are you still in India?”

“No, I’m calling from New York.”

“Ah, well, that follows.”

“As I said, it’s a long story.”

“I believe you need to get back here and tell it in person.”

“So I still have a job?”

“If your story is good enough, I suppose.”

“Hawkes?”

“Worried.”

“Rand?”

“Upset.”

“Badly?”

“You’ve missed a couple of deadlines.”

“I know.”

“But, lucky for you, your clients like you, and want to see it through with you. Unless you’re dead.”

“I’m not dead.”

“So, when are you coming back?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? I looked back at Harriet and Attra in the sitting room. Harriet was feeding him finely chopped, raw steak. It would be a while yet before he would be able to swallow anything larger, and another while still before he could swallow anything live, like a mouse or a rat.

“You still there?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m here.”

“When are you coming, then?”

I decided: “I’ll be there within the week.”

“I’ll tell them, by Monday.”

That was five days away, and I said fine.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Take care of whatever emergency you have, and I’ll take care of them.”

“You’re an angel,” I said.

“I know,” she answered, and hung up.

© Wolfstuff