“That’s correct if you are hiring the taxi by the hour. It’s a service for our hotel guests.”
“How do I make the arrangements? It’s not going to work for me unless there’s a car available now.”
Sumit pointed across the hotel’s main entrance to a desk similar to his. “That’s the transportation desk just opposite, and my colleague, attired similar to myself, is the transportation manager. I assure you he will be most helpful.”
Jennifer wove through the people coming in and going out of the hotel and approached the transportation desk. She was unaware of a balding, round-faced man behind her, more than three inches shorter than her, who stood up from a club chair in the center of the lobby and approached the concierges. But a few moments later she did happen to see him while the transportation manager finished up a phone conversation. She noticed him only because he was talking with one of the turbaned, towering doormen, and by comparison appeared considerably shorter than he actually was.
“May I help you?” the transportation manager said as he hung up his phone.
As she started to speak, she noticed the man had a similar reaction on confronting her as the concierge: a kind of distracted recognition. Jennifer felt instantly self-conscious, worrying something must be amiss with her appearance, like something was stuck between her teeth. As a reflex, she ran her tongue across them.
“Can I help you?” the man repeated. Jennifer noticed his name was Samarjit Rao. She certainly didn’t remember meeting him.
“Have we met?” Jennifer asked.
“Unfortunately, we have not — not in person, anyway. But I did arrange for your airport transportation Tuesday evening, and I know you are to accompany an airport pickup this evening. And we are encouraged by management to learn our guests’ names and faces.”
“I’d say that is impressive,” Jennifer said. She then went on to ask how much a car and driver would be for three hours or so, and if one was currently available with a driver who spoke English.
Samarjit quoted Jennifer a price, which was less than Jennifer expected. As soon as he was able to ascertain a car with an English-speaking driver was available, Jennifer said she’d take it. Five minutes later she was sent out to the porte cochere and told a Mercedes would soon be up from the garage for her. She was also told the driver’s name would be Ranjeet Basoka and that the Sikh doormen had been informed and would direct her to the right vehicle.
As she stood waiting for the hired car to appear, she amused herself by observing the mix of nationalities, but in so doing she didn’t make particular note of a man dressed in black with several gold chain necklaces exit the hotel, weave his way through the crowd, and climb into a black Mercedes. Nor did she notice that the man did not start the car but merely sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Would you care for more coffee?” the waiter asked.
“No, thank you,” Neil said. He folded the newspaper he’d been given, stood up, and stretched. The breakfast had been terrific. The buffet had been one of the most extensive he’d ever seen, and he’d tried just about everything. Having already signed the check, he walked out into the busy lobby, wondering what his plan should be. Catching sight of the concierge desk, he thought he’d start there.
It took a while before it was his turn. “I’m a guest in the hotel...” he began.
“Of course,” Lakshay said. “You are Sahib Neil McCulgan, I presume.”
“How did you know my name?”
“When I arrive in the morning, if there’s time, I try to acquaint myself with the new guests. Sometimes I’m wrong, but usually I’m right.”
“Then you must be aware of Miss Jennifer Hernandez.”
“Absolutely. Are you an acquaintance?”
“I am. She doesn’t know I’m here. It’s sort of a surprise.”
“Just a moment,” Lakshay said as he rushed out from behind the desk. “Wait here,” he added, as he ran out the door.
Bewildered, Neil watched him though the glass as he made a beeline to one of the colorfully dressed doormen. They had a quick conversation, and then Lakshay ran back inside. He was slightly out of breath. “Sorry,” he said to Neil. “Miss Hernandez was just here two minutes ago. I thought maybe I could catch her, but she just got into her car.”
Neil’s face brightened. “She was just here at the concierge desk a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. She asked for some recommendations for sightseeing. We sent her to Old Delhi’s Red Fort, the Jama Masjid mosque, and the Delhi bazaar, with lunch possibly at a restaurant called Karim’s.”
“In that order.”
“Yes, so I believe you could catch her at the Red Fort if you hurry.”
Neil started for the hotel exit when the second concierge called out, “She’s using a hotel car. A black Mercedes. Ask the transportation manager its tag number. It might be useful.”
Neil nodded and waved that he’d heard, then headed to the transportation desk, got the vehicle tag number and the mobile number of the driver, and then rushed out to snare a taxi.
Jennifer was instantly grateful she’d allowed the concierge to talk her into hiring a hotel car for her outing. Once she was nestled within the muffled air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, it was like being on a different planet, compared with either the auto rickshaw or the regular taxi. For the first fifteen minutes she enjoyed gazing out at the spectacle of the Indian streets with their fantastic collection of conveyances, crush of people, and admixture of animals, from restive monkeys to bored cows. She even saw her first Indian elephant.
The driver, Ranjeet, was dressed in a fitted, carefully pressed dark blue uniform. Although he spoke English, his accent was so strong Jennifer found it hard to understand him. She tried to make an effort as he pointed out various landmarks, but she eventually gave up and resorted to merely nodding her head and saying things like “Very interesting” or “That’s wonderful.” Eventually, she opened her guidebook and turned to the section dealing with the Red Fort. After a few minutes the driver noticed her concentration on the book and fell silent.
For almost a half-hour she read about the architecture and some of the fort’s history to the point of being unaware of the traffic or their route. Nor was she aware of two cars that were following hers: one a white Ambassador, and the other a black Mercedes. At times these trailing cars were very close, especially when they all stopped for a red light or backed-up traffic. At other times they were quite far away but never out of sight.
“We’ll soon be seeing the Red Fort on the right,” Ranjeet said, “just beyond this traffic light.”
Jennifer looked up from her reading, which had switched from the Red Fort to the Jama Masjid. What she immediately noticed was that Old Delhi was significantly more crowded than New Delhi, with both people and conveyances, especially more cycle rickshaws and animal-drawn carts. There was also more trash and debris of all sorts. Plus, there was also more activity, such as people getting shaves or haircuts, medical treatment, fast food, massages, their ears cleaned, clothes cleaned, shoes repaired, and teeth filled — all in the open, with very little equipment. All the barber had was a chair, a tiny cracked mirror, a few implements, a bucket of water, and a large rag.
Jennifer was mesmerized. Everything about living life that was secreted away behind closed doors in the West was being done out in the open. For Jennifer, it was visual overload. Every time she glimpsed an activity and wanted to question her driver what people were doing or why they were doing it in the open, she saw something else more surprising.