Free Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi

civil-service-style furniture. Behind the desk were two employees; one had a striped tunic, and the other a slightly shabby black jacket and an air
of importance about him. I went to the latter and showed him my passport.
    ‘I’d like a room.’
    He consulted the register and nodded.
    ‘With terrace and river view,’ I specified.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
    ‘Are you the manager?’ I asked as he was filling out my form.
    ‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘The manager is away, but I am at your service for anything you may need.’
    ‘I’m looking for Mr Nightingale,’ I said.
    ‘Mr Nightingale isn’t here any more,’ he said perfectly naturally. ‘He left some time ago.’
    ‘Do you know where he went?’ I asked, trying to keep sounding natural myself.
    ‘Normally he goes to Bangkok,’ he said. ‘Mr Nightingale travels a lot, he’s a businessman.’
    ‘Oh, I know,’ I said, ‘but I thought he might have come back.’
    The man raised his eyes from the form and looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ he said politely.
    ‘I thought there might be someone in the hotel in a position to give me some more precise information. I’m looking for him for an important piece of business. I’ve come from
Europe specially.’ I saw he was confused and took advantage of it. I took out a twenty-dollar bill and slipped it under the passport. ‘Business deals cost money,’ I said.
‘It’s annoying to come a long way for nothing, if you see what I mean.’
    He took the note and gave me back my passport. ‘Mr Nightingale comes here very rarely these days,’ he said. He assumed an apologetic expression. ‘You’ll
appreciate,’ he added, ‘ours is a good hotel, but it can’t compete with the luxury hotels.’ Perhaps it was only at that moment that he realised he was saying too much. And
he also realised that I appreciated his saying too much. It happened in a glance, an instant.
    ‘I have to clinch an urgent deal with Mr Nightingale,’ I said, though with the clear impression that this tap had now been turned off. And it had. ‘I am not concerned with Mr
Nightingale’s business affairs,’ he said politely but firmly. Then he went on in a professional tone: ‘How many days will you be staying, sir?’
    ‘Just tonight,’ I said.
    As he was giving me the key I asked him what time the restaurant opened. He replied promptly that it opened at eight-thirty and that I could order from the menu or go to the buffet which would
be laid on in the middle of the room. ‘The buffet is Indian food only,’ he explained. I thanked him and took the key. When I was already at the lift I turned back and asked innocuously,
‘I imagine Mr Nightingale ate in the hotel when he was staying here.’ He looked at me without really understanding. ‘Of course,’ he replied proudly. ‘Our restaurant is
one of the finest in the city.’
    Wine costs a lot in India, it is almost all imported from Europe. To drink wine, even in a good restaurant, confers a certain prestige. My guidebook said the same thing: to
order wine means to bring in the head waiter. I gambled on the wine.
    The head waiter was a plump man with dark rings round his eyes and Brylcreemed hair. His pronunciation of French wines was disastrous, but he did all he could to explain the qualities of each
brand. I had the impression he was improvising a little, but I let it go. I made him wait a good while, studying the list. I knew I was breaking the bank, but this would be the last money I spent
to this end: I took a twenty-dollar bill, laid it inside the list, closed it and handed it to him. ‘It’s a difficult choice,’ I said. ‘Bring me the wine Mr Nightingale would
choose.’
    He showed no surprise. He strutted off and came back with a bottle of Rosé de Provence. He uncorked it carefully and poured a little for me to try. I tasted it but didn’t give an
opinion. He didn’t say anything either, impassive. I decided that