Thursday, 30 December 2021 | PNS | Dehradun
Krishan Kalra
Barry Goldwater – 52, born British, naturalised Australian citizen, senior corporate executive – was preparing to leave office when his secretary brought the fax message from India. Barry wondered why she was grinning. The fax was from Roger Dane, their consultant in New Delhi. First part of the message was simple; Dane had finally succeeded in booking a room at Barry’s favourite hotel – The Maurya Sheraton. But the next line made no sense at all. “AC Contessa will be at your service all the time.” Now he knew why the young tart was grinning – in fact, she had a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Who the hell is this Contessa?” Barry snapped at the girl, “And why do I need her services?” He realised he was unnecessarily loud. He wanted to think about this. “Anyway, we’ll find out tomorrow,” he left the message on the table and went out quickly.
Alone in the car, Barry felt a sudden surge of excitement. Could it be true? Were the Indians learning fast? Do they want any special favours – after all he was going for a very important audit? Could she be just an interpreter, he considered briefly, but rejected the idea. He didn’t need an interpreter in India; everyone spoke English there. What would she be like – young or middle aged, fair or dark, perhaps a long haired brunette… these Indian women were so pretty. Or could she be a European; Contessa was a strange name for an Indian. All sorts of pictures flashed before his eyes.
Mentally he made a note to visit his barber for a hair-cut and a facial; what the hell, he would even get a manicure. He must remember to pick up a small gift too; may be a nice perfume. Involuntarily he straightened the knot of his tie and brushed back some non-existent hair. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and realised he was blushing. It was going to be a great trip. Already he was looking forward to it.
Back in the office next morning, Barry tried hard to conceal his thoughts. What would they say behind his back? Most importantly, what if someone told old Betsy – his wife? She would kill him. As it was, he’d found it hard not to mention it last night at dinner. He felt a twinge of guilt. Yet, he mustn’t chicken out. It would be so far from home, Betsy would never guess. He must be careful. He had to think of some cover-up story for her; and of course for the scheming secretary too.
“Please get Suresh Mehra on the line,” he told the girl on the intercom. “Let me call off this charade about Contessa, whoever she is.” As Suresh – vice president of the company he was going to audit – came on the line, Barry put on his best formal mask, “Suresh who the hell is this ‘AC Contessa’ and why do I need her help in Delhi? Why should you go to all this trouble?” Suresh was laughing. “Barry, old chap, sorry to disappoint you but it’s not a woman; it’s only a car – an old model but very comfortable. For heaven’s sake, don’t get ideas. You are visiting India, not Japan.”
Barry almost fell from the chair. He was crestfallen. “A car, did you say Suresh; a car with initials?” he sounded incredulous. “Yes sir, it’s an air-conditioned Contessa. And now, if you please, can we talk about the audit schedule?
(A veteran of the corporate world, the author now does only voluntary work in various spheres)
