When Henri Stader III (Hans) called me from Singapore Airport, he was all excited. “I have just met,” he breathed into the phone, “a woman called Cynthia over on the flight from LA. She's fabulous company and gorgeous; we spent much of the flight just getting to know each other and I must plan my return to coincide with hers.” I was hardly surprised, for I had long known that you could get Hans charged up about a telephone pole if there was an attractive skirt draped around it.
“Is your Indian Airlines flight to Chennai on time?”
“Alas, yes,” he sighed, and hung up to go back to his new girlfriend.
Hans was as American as they come. The son of Henri Stader II (who, no doubt, was the illustrious son of Henri Stader I, all of which means that they had a problem with finding a book of names whenever it was needed), Hans was a magna-cum-laude from some US univ or the other and worked as a VP in an American investment bank that was our joint venture partner. He was a tall, well-built, friendly fellow, with a long face that reminded me of Stan Laurel (of Laurel & Hardy fame) and a smile that could be charming, sardonic or entirely artificial. Like most American investment bankers, he had an attention span that varied from about 18 to 25 seconds (on the outside), considerable stated arrogance when needed and a natural propensity to make some really cool presentations. I knew Hans well for, just a couple of months prior to his India visit, I had spent a month at LA in 1996, with him as my host. He had been hospitable and had spent a weekend driving me around, yet my primary impression was of a fellow who was rather vacuous in the head and driven to distraction by just about any pretty face.
Hans’ India itinerary was to land in Chennai, where my colleague, Chandra, would meet him for an hour, after which he would take the Bangalore flight. He would work with us for a week and return. Simple enough. When he landed in Bangalore, it would be my turn to host him, not an entirely unpleasant prospect, for he could make sparkling conversation and be a perfect guest.
Some hours later, I had an anxious call from Chandra, who was at the Chennai airport. The Indian Airlines flight had landed, all passengers had gone past immigration and indeed left, but of Hans there was no clue. I was convinced of course that he had, in his infatuation, done some fat-headed thing, yet there was little any of us could do but wait.
When the call did come, it was three hours later. Hans was at the Taj Hotel, at Colombo, Sri Lanka and a shaken man.
He had quite a story to relate: landing in Chennai, he was told at Immigration that his visa had expired. Just how he could board the flight at Singapore with an expired visa was a flummoxing question that remains unanswered, yet he first didn’t believe it and later, as it became clear that he was in the wrong for not having checked such a basic detail, he began to get increasingly belligerent with the immigration officer, which, you will doubtless agree, is a particularly bad idea. He demanded that the visa be renewed at that moment – a laughable request – and, when that was turned down, that he speak to the American Embassy, which request was also denied. The situation was turning grim: the immigration officer was on the verge of stamping “Deported” on his passport – the ultimate humiliation to any American – after which he would have to take the next flight out of India, when a kindred soul suggested helpfully that the same aircraft that had brought him to Chennai would be flying to Colombo in an hour and that Sri Lanka did not require Americans to have a visa to visit. This was real serendipity (pun intended, for Serendip was Sri Lanka’s original name!).
To buy a ticket to Colombo was with him the work of an instant and, on arrival, he checked into the Taj, a safe hotel in what was otherwise an unsafe country for foreigners at that time. His boss in the US, he said, had given him a dressing down and added that he bloody well stay in the hotel till the visa was done and not move around.
All’s well, we breathed easy, that ends well. My colleague began the complex task of working on getting a visa for the fellow by pulling strings in the right quarters.
I called Hans a few hours later and he seemed relaxed now. “I have just had the most incredible food here at the hotel. Dinner seems inviting as well.”
The next morning, he called in with encomiums about the food again. Clearly, Hans was having a feast.
On the third morning though, when he called, I could barely recognise his voice, punctuated by a series of groans. He was down in bed with a most upset stomach, the result of over-indulgence in spice, fish, sausages and about everything else at the buffett. Mr. Henri Stader III was now terribly ill, the hotel doctor had been summoned and our traumatised friend had stayed up all night, making frequent, emergency trips to the bathroom. Much as I tried to commiserate with his plight, it was, at once, comical and entertaining and so typical of the fellow to goof up at the slightest opportunity. I hopefully made the right noises in sympathy and continued the work the next day as he gave me session-wise updates on his health, thankfully omitting the gory details.
When Hans finally reached Bangalore two days later, he seemed a changed man. Three kilos lighter – not from having thrown his weight around, for a change – he now spoke in a softer voice, and was visibly weak (and not just in the head, so the condition had now spread in some sense). He spent a few days in Bangalore coming to work, but was clearly preoccupied with recouping his health, in which effort, of course, all of us in office had much unneccessary advice to offer.
On the day of his return, I thought some sympathy was in order. “You have had a difficult trip, Hans,” I said, “ and I hope the return will be fine.”
His face, I recall distinctly, was glum. “All this was OK,” he replied, “ but I have missed the return flight to LA with Cynthia.”
Hans hadn’t changed after all.
