WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?
his spirits. An impediment, the cramp of language he had sometimes experienced in letter writing, did not arise this time. The hollowness of letters with all their inadequate phrases had caused him to stop writing letters entirely, but the letter to Amy gave him pleasure. He said, J rather like the idea of being your lover. He said, / agreed to it because Ernie seemed so upset, but I don't like him anymore. He said, in his last long paragraph, I'm sitting in the bank and looking out into the empty foyer and the rainy street - and that was especially strange because as he wrote it he did look around the bank and he tried to explain all the things he saw to this lonely woman.
She replied. It came quickly and it made Leo realize that India was just across the water, closer than England. Amy talked about the children, how brown they had become; about the ashram's activities, the poetry magazine, the outings, the play school that was being organized. She said, I've seen those sexy temples, by the way. Fantastid She said she was learning a bit of Hindi. And she finished her letter with a long paragraph similar to Leo's: It's late now and our chickens are silent. The room seems quite empty and I'm smoking a cigarette I rolled from the air edition of the Guardian Weekly . . .
That was an aerogram. Her next was many sheets of notepaper in a thick envelope. She unburdened herself and responded to Leo's remark about Ernie (I don't like him anymore). She analyzed her marriage more candidly and more fairly than Ernie had ever done; it was a little history, their first meeting and their first disappointments. She said how excited she had been when Leo had come home unexpectedly with Ernie. Leo read, fascinated: she was a victim and here she was alone; Leo had had a part in victimizing her. The deception was like a fishbone in his throat.
Leo wrote Amy a long apology; he asked her to forgive him for agreeing to the lie. He said he was sorry and that if he had it to do over again he would refuse. Amy's reply was: Don't say that. Don't regret what you've said. You did something fine because you believed Ernie was your friend. I think about you often, Leo, and I sometimes wish we really had gone off together. But it's too late for that now. You're a very sweet person. If you regret what you did, then I'll have to as well. And I don't want that. I'm happy here.
SINNING WITH ANNIE
The bank manager, Farnsworth, frowned at Leo when the coffee boy knocked on the glass partition and said Leo had a telephone call.
'Take your call,' said Farnsworth. 'I'll check these figures in the meantime.'
'Sorry,' said Leo. 'I'll be right back.'
'Shauri kwishaV It was Ernie. 'It's all settled! I've just come out of court this minute. It'll be final in three weeks. God, the judge gave me the third degree, asked me how well I knew you and did I know what you were up to . . . Leo, are you there?'
'Yes. Look, I'm busy-'
'I thought you'd laugh when I told you. Say, Leo, is there anything wrong?'
'I'm with the manager. Piles of work-'
'I understand. But what a weight off my shoulders! It's like -just like a big weight lifted off my shoulders. I can breathe again! I feel like celebrating. How about a drink at the Rex?'
'It's not even noon, Ernie.'
'I can drive right over. Say yes.'
'No, I've got work to do.'
'Leo, are you feeling all right?'
'I'm fine; I have to go. The manager's waiting. I'll ring you back.'
But he didn't ring Ernie back that day; he busied himself with the July figures. And the next day he could have rung, but he had no excuse for neglecting to ring the previous day, none that Ernie would believe. Ernie would still say he was ill or out of sorts. Leo was waiting - for courage, he told himself. He did not want to hear about the divorce and he did not want to see Ernie until he could say what he felt: that Ernie had betrayed him and made him victimize poor Amy.
The third day Ernie rang three times in the morning. Leo told the switchboard operator that if Ernie Grigson rang again - she was to ask for the name - she should tell him that Leo was not available. Leo tried to stay out of sight; he worked in the vault, then in a back office hidden from the street. But late in the afternoon, when he was standing at the front counter and going over his transactions on the electric adding machine, he sensed someone pause at the window, and he felt it must be Ernie, peering in at him.
It wasn't. Two European ladies had stopped. Leo looked up and
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO.-*
they began walking. He didn't recognize them - they were deeply tanned; one wore a headscarf, the other a straw hat - but their gestures were distinct. As they moved along the sidewalk, one looked through the bank's window, directly at him with her broad brown face and bright red lips, and then she quickly looked away and seemed to mumble; the second turned and stared at Leo, shielding her eyes from the glare in a kind of salute. And they walked on. The women did not face each other, but Leo could tell they were speaking. He realized it was Thursday.
Farnsworth came over as Leo was searching the columns of the Standard for the Court Record. He couldn't find it at first, and when he did find the right column (it resembled the account of a cricket match) it was with difficulty that he located his name among the many there.
'I see we've got our name in the papers, Mockler,' said Farnsworth curtly. 'Feel like talking about it?'
'No,' said Leo.
The Palms was run by a small, neat widow of sixty or more whose husband had been a District Officer in Morogoro. She had a son Leo's age who was an accountant with a public relations firm in Capetown, and usually, before dinner, when Leo was having his drink on the verandah, she joined him and spoke about her son. The other guests tried to avoid her chatter, but Leo was grateful for her company and even listened with patient interest to her reading her son's letters.
But that Thursday, the day Leo's name appeared in the Standard's Court Record, the widow avoided him. She sat at another table with an older resident, a man Leo knew by his nickname, and only once looked at Leo: wickedly, he thought, as if at a traitor. The widow and her elderly companion spoke in rapid whispers, then very loudly and irrelevantly ('Are the Browns in nine?' 'I believe they are, yes') to disguise their whispering.
Leo ate alone and felt eyes on him and voices behind him. But he was determined not to be intimidated; after dinner he had his coffee on the verandah instead of the lounge. He turned his back to the people in the bar, which adjoined the verandah, and he faced the sea. The waves lapped, making a breathless splashing, and the palm fronds rattled out of sight, high above him. In the darkness, across that ocean, were India and Amy. He felt like going up to his room and writing her a note. He fought the impulse. If he
SINNING WITH ANNIE
walked through the bar they would say, 'Expect he's going up to write to the other party.' They would laugh, because now they believed they knew his closest secret.
A silence consumed the bar sounds; it was as if the sea had mysteriously risen inside and drowned every person there. It happened like that, unnaturally, and the only sounds were the palms and the regular waves and, far-off, one or two barking voices, perhaps of fishermen, the shouts skipping in from the water.
Leo turned to see Ernie walking through the bar. The widow said, 'He's outside.'
Ernie was at the doorway. He paused and smiled weakly, then came toward Leo with both hands out.
'Leo, I'm sorry,' he said, too loud. The people in the bar must have heard because they went silent in a hush once again and Leo could hear the ice rattling in their glasses.
'Go away,' the whisper was barely audible. 'Don't talk to me here.'
'It was the African-'
'Lower your voice,' Leo hissed.
'The African,' said Ernie. But it was a poor whisper. 'At the printery. The stupid bugger forgot what the editor told him about leaving out your name. It's all his fault-'
'Get out,' said Leo. He tossed his head. 'They're listening.'
'I just wanted to tell you that I promised I'd make your bookin
gs - for your long leave. But you never gave me a list of places. You mentioned Vienna, wasn't it? And I forgot the others. So write them down on a piece of paper-'
'All right,' said Leo. 'Tomorrow. Now do me a favor.'
'Yes, of course,' said Ernie.
'Get out of here this minute.'
'You hate me, don't you? I don't blame you-'
'Ernie!' In his exasperation he raised his voice, and again he heard the ice in the glasses.
'Margo's in the car. She said to thank you,' said Ernie.
'Leave by the beach, so they don't see you.'
Leo went up to bed by entering the building from the back door, avoiding crossing through the bar. Going up the stairs he thought he heard the widow's voice, '- Indian lawyer came to see him -Knew it then, of course-' her voice was a high, satisfied whine.
Chandra, the widow, the people in the bar, Margo, Amy, Ernie
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?
- everyone had got what he wanted out of the divorce, except Leo. All the blame was his and he was suffering for no good reason, as if he alone had been made to sit in a zone of dead air.
'Coffee?' inquired Farnsworth; Leo said yes, Farnsworth suggested the Gymkhana Club, and Leo knew it was serious: it was in the Billiard Room of the Gymkhana Club that Leo's predecessor, a man who traded currency on the side, was sacked.
Farnsworth was relaxed. He talked about the club, how long he had been a member, all the changes he had seen, how women weren't allowed in the upstairs lounge, how he and others in the old days used to wait every second Friday for the mailboat and the English papers. He leaned forward and said, 'Let's take the bull by the horns-'
A man entered the club and, greeting Farnsworth, smiled at Leo.
'You're due for leave in September, am I right?'
'The fifteenth,' said Leo.
'Well, I've been thinking,' said Farnsworth. 'We're not all that busy. I think you can take it a bit earlier than that.'
'How soon would that be?' asked Leo.
'Say - within the next fortnight,' said Farnsworth. 'That'll give you time to make your bookings. If you have any difficulty I'll see what I can do.'
'I won't have any trouble with that,' said Leo.
'Better settle up with the tax people before you go.'
'Aren't I coming back here?' asked Leo.
'Do you want to?' Farnsworth looked surprised. 'I would have thought not.'
'I don't know,' said Leo.
'This club has seen its share of scandal,' said Farnsworth, and then he smiled. He stood up and put his arm on Leo's shoulder. 'I know how it is,' he said. 'Don't do anything foolish. Things look pretty black to you now. But when you're back in the UK, everything will seem different. You'll see.'
'Can you drop me at the post office? I have a cable to send.'
Later in the morning Leo rang Ernie.
'About those plane bookings,' Leo said. 'I've changed my mind about Beirut-'
'Very sensible,' said Ernie. 'How do you want me to route you?'
'I'm going to London,' said Leo.
SINNING WITH ANNIE
'Any stops?'
'Yes/ said Leo, 'Bombay.'
'That's in India,' said Ernie. He laughed. 'It'll cost a lot extra.'
'You can afford it,' said Leo.
She had said she would be at the airport, but it was a man who stepped out of the crowd of people with bundles and took Leo by the arm and spoke his name. The man was English; he was dressed like a holy man, in a dusty white robe. His hair was to his shoulders and he had a full beard, the tip of which he clutched as he spoke to Leo: 'Amy's told me all about you,' he said, but not unkindly. His eyes were extremely gentle, and he held Leo's arm the way one holds an invalid's.
His name was Bob, he said. He was agreeable and helpful, and even recognizing the vast differences in their appearances, Leo felt close to him, saw him as one who had perhaps lived on the periphery of Amy's marriage - probably helped her through the divorce - as Leo had lived alongside Ernie.
'Amy couldn't get away,' said Bob. 'I'm supposed to take you to the ashram.' He guided Leo through the crowd and hailed a taxi, and they bumped along through more crowds to a railway station which had the appearance of a busy refugee encampment.
They traveled second class; it was a compromise. Leo wanted first class, which was air-conditioned, and Bob said he always went third. In the train Bob said, 'You look petrified!'
'What's that?' asked Leo, glancing out the window.
'A rice field,' said Bob.
'No, those naked people.'
'Oh, beggars. India's full of them.'
They arrived at the ashram at night. It was an enormous compound, as plain as an army barracks, surrounded by a freshly painted wall which was floodlit. Amy's house was big, two storied, and she was at the upper window, a white face with darkness behind it.
Leo bounded up the stairs ahead ot Bob, hut when he saw her his nerve failed and he could not kiss her. Then Bob was m the room, putting Leo's suitcase against the wall and saying awk-wardly, 'Well here vou are. Ill he going now.'
'You're a dear/ said Amy. Boh had opened the door. She said. 'Narcndra^
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?
'BarodaJ said Bob, and was away.
'I see you speak the language,' said Leo.
'Pardon?' said Amy, and then, 'Oh that,' and smiled.
She was wearing a sari and gold bangles, and her hair was loosely braided in one thick strand with a tassel at the tip in the Indian style. She was not the person Leo had written to, not the person he had seen at Ernie's house. She was thinner, more angular, awkward, plain even, and her speech was shallow. She was not pretty; she was any English housewife in an Indian costume, and Leo noticed she was smoking and wore a watch.
Leo fumbled with his hands and finally said, 'It's a nice house you've got.'
'Very old,' said Amy. 'It belonged to one of the first residents of the ashram. A wonderful old man. It's got a fantastic view of the place. You'll see in the morning.'
'The kids,' said Leo. 'Are they asleep?'
'Hours ago,' said Amy.
'They didn't wait up,' said Leo.
'They didn't know you were coming.'
Leo was going to ask why, but didn't. He found it hard to speak to Amy, and it was odd, because he could have written to her very easily; but now he could hardly think of anything to say. She seemed a vague acquaintance, met after a long time, someone he barely knew.
'That's a very handsome oil lamp,' said Leo, pointing to the lantern on a carved table; it was the only light in the room.
'Only five rupees at the bazaar,' said Amy. 'It's solid brass.'
'Do you mind if I blow it out?' said Leo. He did not wait for Amy's reply. He walked over, raised the chimney and puffed on it. The room was dark. Leo said, 'Where am I going to sleep?'
'Silly,' said Amy, and Leo heard the gold bangles clink and saw the sparks from the cigarette being stubbed out. He heard her walking toward him and saw her arm move outward as if flinging her sari off.
They made love ineptly, in silence, with unsatisfying speed on a rocking charpoy. Leo apologized, saying that it had been a long plane journey and that he was tired. And Amy confessed that she was upset, too. It had been dutiful; there was no passion, and Leo felt that he had lived through the act a hundred times already, even to the apology.
SINNING WITH ANNIK
He was too excited to sleep, as if he had been rushed through a tunnel, and he told himself that it was the plane. He lay beside Amy and now the room did not seem so dark: he could make out large squares on the ceiling. He still heard the plane, the roar of the landing, and felt the deafening pressure in his ears. He said to himself, Tm in India,' but he felt nothing. All the utterance brought to him was India's flat map shape, the vast red patch, the sharp triangle drooping into green ocean, the black borders and dots of cities. But he would get to know it, and 'Yes,' he thought, 'this could be home for me.'
'I wan
t to marry you,' said Leo at last.
'No,' said Amy, 'don't say that.'
'Yes,' he held her, but felt her struggle slightly.
'I can't,' she said; and then pulling away, 'What was that?'
Amy rose up on her elbow and looked at the ceiling.
'Did you hear a bicycle?'
'A bicycle?'
'Go look - go to the window,' said Amy.
Leo walked to the window. Down in the yard a bicycle leaned on its kickstand. An Indian, hard to make out except for the gleaming whiteness of his dhoti, was walking away from it.
'What?' asked Amy.
But Leo did not answer until he had lain down again. 'Nothing,' he said, 'just an Indian.'
Amy put her hand to her throat and started to laugh. k It might be Narendra,' she said. 'My husband. 1 Her laugh was coarse, that stranger's laugh that fitted the new image Leo had of her.
Leo leaped up and looked for his pants, but just as he caught sight of them - they were knotted in a pile ten feet from the bed - he heard feet quickly mounting the stairs.
W4
Memories of a Curfew
It was not odd that the first few days of our curfew were enjoyed by most people. It was a welcome change for us, like the noisy downpour that comes suddenly in January and makes a watery crackle on the street and ends the dry season. The parties, though these were now held in the afternoon, had a new topic of conversation. There were many rumors, and repeating these rumors made a kind of tennis match, a serve and return, each hit slightly more savage than the last. And the landscape of the city outside the fence of our compound was fascinating to watch. During these first days we stood in our brightly flowered shirts on our hill; we could see the palace burning, the soldiers assembling and making people scatter, and we could hear the bursts of gunfire and some shouts just outside our fence. We were teachers, all of us young, and we were in Africa. There were well-educated ones among us. One of them told me that during the Roman Empire under the reign of Claudius rich people and scholars could be carried in litters by lecticarii, usually slaves, to camp with servants at a safe distance from battles; these were curious Romans, men of high station who, if they so wished, could be present and, between feasts, witness the slaughter.