The girl hesitates for a moment, torn between a desire to escape, a feeling of guilt, and a mixture of repugnance and pity for the speaker, on whose face great drops of sweat are now starting out.
'Better misses go now.' The servant's voice has no trace of emotion, he doesn't even look round, still stooping over the bed. His large blackish hand, with its paler pink palm and fingertips, grasps a clean folded handkerchief, with which he gently and efficiently wipes away the sweat on his master's face, while the latter gasps: 'Yes — get out . . . and stay out !'
A second longer she stands there unhappily, her feelings divided, listening to the monotonous voice murmuring soothingly as to a child as the big dark hands deftly smooth the blankets over the prostrate form, whose spasmodic shudders are still visible through the mass of bedclothes, accompanied by semi-delirious mutterings.
Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? Sudden and piercingly loud a brain-fever bird's cry sounds startlingly close, as if it were in the room, drowning all other sounds. Numerous birds all round the house call back the same question, and a whole explosion of identical cries breaks out on all sides at once.
The eternal Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? Who-are-you ? repeated from the tamarinds at the back, from the palm in front, from the trees where the snake lives, from the banana trees just outside, from the marsh, from the bushes screening the servants' quarters, and from further away, creates an exasperating din that seems as though it will really go on forever. The earsplitting, monotonous repetition continues like an infuriating machine-noise nobody knows how to stop.
All of a sudden the girl can't stand it; her clumsily cut hair swings forward abruptly as she covers her ears with her hands. The dreamlike reality in which she lives these days seems to be trembling on the brink of nightmare as she hurries out of the room, pushing open the wooden door-flaps with such force that they go on vibrating long after she's disappeared.
8
Mohammed Dirwaza Khan watches by day and by night. His main function is to watch over his master. His always watchful eyes and retentive memory observe and record all that takes place in the house and the compound. Fanatically jealous of the man's reputation, he defends him to the point of bloodshed against the slightest attack. A breath of criticism or even a joking remark can start a lifelong vendetta. His loyalty is blind, absolute; to the death he would serve his master, if necessary without payment. He lies, steals, intrigues, spies, bullies, fights, and possibly even murders for him; cares for him with endless unspoken devotion in health and sickness.
What happens to him when the other man goes on leave is a mystery. But, by some secret personal magic, he discovers the date and place of his return, and is there, waiting for him, at the airport or on the quayside, ready to welcome him back with a profound salaam. After which he resumes his duties as if there had been no year-long interruption. How he has lived through the interval nobody knows or cares. The one certainty is that he has served no other master, and never will.
The marriage of the man to whom he is dedicated could not have taken place within his sphere of vigilance — he would have prevented it. The accomplished fact he can only oppose by stealth, determined it shall not last. He regards the girl as an enemy and a rival, to be disposed of as soon as possible. Yet it has been clear from the start that she is no match for him, hardly worthy to be called an adversary, so totally does she lack all qualifications for holding her own against him, not even the weapon of love at her disposal.
He despises her deeply for her inability to adjust herself to the climate or to control the servants; for letting him keep his authority unchallenged; for being timid and, to his mind, unattractive and skinny; because she is not popular with the other white people, doesn't give elaborate parties or do anything to enhance his master's prestige. Etc. Etc. The list is endless.
He has worked against her secretly all along, cunningly undermining her in his master's mind; disparaging her as a housekeeper, as a hostess — even as a wife, though he only employs hints on this delicate, dangerous ground, and slyly disguises his abysmal contempt, which would seem to insult the other's powers of selection.
9
The sun is now directly overhead, directly above the house. It is the hottest time of the day, when life seems suspended and the whole world lies gasping, waiting for relief from the scourge of heat. Heat has silenced even the brain-fever birds; even the noise of swarming insects is muted. Not a breath of air moves the tamarinds; the shadow of their thin branches and speckled leaves looks like a black net cast over walls and roof and gives no more shade. The sacred snake is coiled motionless in the recesses of the great trees. Their foliage, dense, dark, solid looking as if carved in stone, does not stir when one of the small green parrots sheltering there is struck down by the heat, falling like a tiny bright meteor to the ground, where ants will dispose of it within the hour.
There is no movement about the house. The only living being in sight is the chuprassi, stretched out on the back porch, his sash and badge of office beside him, his raised arms folded over his face, the black bush of beard jutting beneath the apex of a triangle of which the other two points are the tufts of black wire sprouting in his armpits.
In the blinding glare nothing moves, either in the house itself or in the compound, or in the untidy, village-like cluster of huts composing the servants' quarters, hidden by straggling bushes, where even the constant crying of children is hushed. A half-starved pi-dog is panting with its head in a patch of shade; the only motion to be seen there is the bellows-like pumping of its skeletal ribcage.
The master of the house sleeps fitfully beneath his mosquito net, nervously watched by a turbaned youth squatting on his hams. The bearded Moslem, whose successor he is to be, is descending the stairs : his lean bare legs shut and open like blackish scissors, outlined against the white material hitched round his middle, the upper part of his body only a shade or two darker than his grey beard. Now, without making the slightest sound, he comes out on to the verandah, and turns his hook-nosed face to the left.
Here, on the shady side of the house, the girl is lounging on an old steamer chair, her bare legs hanging over the side, her bare arms reaching up to the chair-back; a position which lets the maximum amount of air touch her body. On her lap lies a letter, but she is not reading. It came some days earlier, and has already been read so often that its folds are starting to wear thin. She knows by heart what is written on the paper under the college heading, about it being a thousand pities she can't take up the scholarship she won last year is it entirely too late to reconsider . . .? Isn't she rather wasting her talents in that primitive country known as the white man's grave?
She keeps the letter carefully hidden from her husband. It is only because he happens to be down with a bout of malaria that she is now holding it openly, though apparently giving less attention to it than to the dazzle beyond the verandah. From her seat she can see a slice of the compound's bare earth, the rickety boundary fence and the path beyond, all framed by exotic orchids and by the large dangling bones of dead animals from which these parasitic plants derive nourishment. She doesn't really see any of it. She's as oblivious of the arrival of her husband's boy as she is of the uncomfortable chair and the ghastly heat, living a fantasy version of what her life would have been if her mother had not married her off at the first opportunity.
Recalling a phrase in the letter, she wonders whether the woman's determination to force her into this particular marriage had anything to do with the name white man's grave ' sensationally applied to the region, from which mosquitoes and other disease-carriers have not yet been eliminated. Deciding that the intention probably is that she shall not return, she accepts this without any special feeling, accustomed all her life to being unwanted among people blind to her gifts. It's only at school that her intelligence has ever been recognized; and that period, not many months ago, already seems immeasurably remote — almost mythical — so hat she doesn't consider seriously the letter's s
uggestion. is as much as she can do to cope with each day as it comes, each one a little hotter than the one before. Unaware of the hostile gaze fixed upon her, she lies dreaming about university life, incapable of the effort of self-assertion that might turn the dream into reality.
Mohammed Dirwaza Khan has ready a question about tonight's dinner (justified by his master's being in bed, and her frequent absences from the meal), should she look up and ask what he wants. He can't understand why she doesn't do so, and suspects her of pretending not to know he is there. The letter is his main interest : like every letter that comes to the house, he has marked its arrival, and noted it in his mind. Her preoccupation with it strikes him as highly significant, and from the care with which she keeps it hidden he has concluded that it is a love letter. He has actually had it in his hands and examined it with the closest attention, but to no purpose, as he can't read English. He daren't take it away to get it translated, sure she will notice if he abstracts it from its hiding place. Looking like an Old Testament prophet with his stern ascetic face and grey beard, he frowns at her disapprovingly; then, deciding nothing is to be gained by watching her any longer, he retires into the house.
Reappearing almost immediately on the back porch, he stares down with a vicious sneer on his face at the recumbent chuprassi, who's sound asleep, his beard stirring slightly each time he breathes out with a little snore. The other man stands poised like a stork on his left leg; the right leg, thin as a stick but immensely strong, shoots out with the sudden force of a mule's, kicking him in the kidneys.
‘Pig-dog! Is this how you guard the master's property?' His voice rises to a thin scream.
The chuprassi wakes with a yell of pain, scrambling on all fours, endeavouring at the same time to retrieve his badge of office and to massage the injured spot, pouring out a guttural flood of confused excuses, apologies. The only answer is a violently ejected, neatly aimed blob of spit, which sizzles into the soft dust, making a deep pit there, only just missing his hand.
Having thus aroused his subordinate to a sense of duty Mohammed moves on, his large horny feet with their widely splayed, almost prehensile toes rising and falling soundlessly, impervious to stones, splinters, cactus spines, scorpions, snakes - all the assorted hazards of the compound.
Silently circling the silent house, he rather resembles animated, gnarled, ancient piece of wood, from which sap has long ago been extracted by the relentless sun, padding along, indefatigable, indestructible-seeming, in thee blasting noonday heat, watching everything out of blinking eyes.
10
Down the stairs comes a handsome major of about forty, immaculate in R.A.M.C. tropical uniform. The girl is waiting for him at the bottom. She is relieved that his visit has gone off quietly, with no explosions of bad temper on the part of the patient. It now only remains for her to show this army doctor out to his car, waiting in the shade of the porch. She's never met him before, and, as he comes down, looking cool, smart, and assured, he seems to personify all that's acceptable socially, and that she is not. For this reason, his presence makes her slightly uneasy, and she'll be glad when he's gone.
'Not to worry,' he tells her. 'He'll be over this in three or four days.'
His voice is pleasant, but off-hand. She expects him to go straight out to his car, and is surprised when he pauses instead, looking at her. At the same moment, she hears bottles being put down behind her, looks round, and sees that Mohammed Dirwaza Khan has brought a tray of drinks into the sitting room. The Moslem lifts his head, confronting her with the frown of disapproval he puts on these days when he thinks she's done something wrong, hardly troubling to hide his contempt, now that he's in triumphant charge of the sickroom. The faint flush that appears on her cheeks could equally well be because she's ashamed of not standing up to him, or afraid the major will notice she doesn't, or because it hasn't: occurred to her to offer him a drink.
Now she does so, and he accepts. Together they go into the room, which, except for a few books lying about, is just as it was when she saw it for the first time, months ago, and was discouraged, once and for all, by the hopeless dull dreariness of it, which seems beyond improvement. The man isn't interested in the room. It's her youth that has caught his attention — she looks, and is, years younger than most of his women friends — and he fixes his eyes on her while she awkwardly measures whiskey into a glass.
They haven't met because she seldom goes to the club, where he is a prominent figure, as he is everywhere, a leading light of the little community, yet, as an army man, above it; a member of a privileged caste. He is universally popular, and has the reputation of being a discreet Don Juan. The men like and admire him; the women are crazy about him.
The girl hands him his glass, suggesting that he add the soda himself. Without taking his eyes off her he squirts the siphon once, then picks up the glass, gazing at her all the time. ‘Cheers !' He lifts it slightly, and drinks. 'Aren't you drinking ?'
She shakes her head, her hair swings forward, and she puts it back from her face, rather embarrassed by his prolonged, cool, perfectly open stare. His next remark, too, is embarrassing.
'I've heard a lot about you.' Disregarding her silence, he calmly continues to stare at her without the least concealment, divesting her of her dress. . . is she wearing anything underneath it ? No brassiere, certainly. . . figure all right without . . . Probably no pants either . . .
She has heard rumours about him, and gives him a dubious glance. In spite of his good looks she doesn't see him as a romantic figure; to her, he seems middle-aged. She vaguely supposes he's a contemporary of her dead father's, which somehow seems reassuring. Suddenly more at ease, she smiles and tells him : I'm sure you haven't heard anything nice about me '. Half aware that she hasn't smiled for a long time, she's grateful to him for making it possible for her to be amused and to speak naturally.
He smiles back, having reached a mainly favourable conclusion about her, though with reservations. Her smile, at least, has charm. Otherwise, he finds her devoid of this quality, like a schoolgirl, with her clumsily-bobbed hair, which must have been cut by one of the local Jap barbers, though it might have been hacked off with nail scissors in the school dorm. He thinks this a pity, since her hair attracts him, and he wants to stroke it. Thick and shining, it's so fine that it stirs all the time in the draught of the fan as if it had life of its own. She herself, on the other hand, strikes him as oddly lifeless, so absent and vague she might almost be sleep-walking. There must be something wrong with her, he can't make it out. She doesn't appear to appreciate the fact that he's sacrificing his valuable time in order to get to know her. How can she be oblivious of this honour? Is it possible that she doesn't realize other women would give their ears to be in her place ?
To her surprise, he now asks, 'How are you, by the way? ' introducing a personal note via his profession, as she gives him no opening. 'I don't mean to be uncomplimentary, but you're looking a bit washed-out — climate getting you down? ' But this gets him nowhere. She misses the point, not catching on at all, and merely replies: ‘I can't get used to this heat’
‘We can't do much about that, I'm afraid.' He begins to sound slightly impatient. ‘But cheer up! The rains are coming.'
For a moment they look at one another in silence, the man smiling with automatic charm, giving her a last chance. She feels, but does not understand his dissatisfaction, which only bewilders her, so that she doesn't know what to say to him.
Irritated by such unresponsiveness, his impulse towards her expiring, he gives her up, finally, as a bad job. 'Oh, well, let me know if you feel out of sorts,' he says, not quite hiding his annoyance. He puts down his empty glass and strides to the door, where Mohammed Dirwaza Khan has already appeared, preparatory to seeing him off. The girl stays where she is, calling goodbye to the major, who suddenly seems in a hurry. Exasperated because he's been wasting his time he jumps into his car without answering, accelerates, and is gone.
She is left with that peculiar
sense of frustration which results from the unexplained, premature ending of something pleasant. The true cause of the man's behaviour never dawns upon her. He was nice at first; they seemed to be getting on well. So what happened? What did she do wrong?
All at once she starts violently, amazed to see her husband appear. He seems to have grown taller and thinner in bed, and looks an eight-foot skeleton. Even in his pyjamas, which hang loose on his bony frame, he has a sort of overbearing dominance that's rather impressive, although he has to clutch at the furniture for support. She moves instinctively to help him, but stops at the sound of his angry voice.
‘Has that bloody pill-merchant gone at last ? What have you been doing with him all this time ?' He glares at her out of eyes that seem sunk into his head.
'I only gave him a drink.'
'Drink ?' He seizes upon the word with avid suspicion, accusing her with those eyes, burning with fever in their black cavities.
Dumb and motionless, she watches him slowly work his way into the room, grabbing one chair after another, until he reaches the tray of drinks. Here he holds the whisky bottle up to the light to see how much has gone, next turning his attention to the two glasses, only one of which has been used. This doesn't deter him from examining the other minutely, and even smelling it before putting it down. 'So you haven't taken to the bottle so far,' he says in a nasty tone.
‘You know I hate the stuff,' she replies, and adds diffidently: ‘Won't you go back to bed ?'
He ignores this, looking all round the room with a crafty, suspicious air, as if the major might be hiding behind the furniture. Heaven only knows what makes him see the place objectively for once, in all its impersonal, dreary bareness, just as he took it over from his bachelor predecessor. Dimly recalling his mother's drawing-room, full of chintz and silver rose bowls, he asks the girl: ‘Why the hell don't you do something about this room ?'