Hot Water Man

  She took the package. She had seen these being prepared on the pavements, men squatting with their little brass pots, painting leaves with lime paste and seeds, then folding them into parcels. She watched Sultan and his companion, a placid old man with white hair wispy as a baby. They popped the packets into their mouths. The old man’s gums and teeth were stained red from it. She popped in hers and nearly choked.

  ‘Good?’

  She could only nod, gagged with paint and what felt like pebbles. It was sickeningly perfumed; stalks and seeds stuck in her teeth. She tried to smile. Sultan smiled back, a fond uncle, and continued his business negotiations in Urdu.

  She looked at the stall. It looked one of the more prosperous, with Bashir Bottle Shop written in English above the door. Plastic cannisters hung in bundles, like gourds. On the ground lay a sack of scent bottles, all Coty bubble-shaped, familiar from her mother’s dressing-table. In the window stood drinks bottles, clean and shining, Johnnie Walker, Dimple, empty vessels from somebody else’s good times. Perhaps some were from her own. Last week a bottle-wallah had stopped outside the gate; she had found none to give him. Presumably Mohammed had brought them down here himself. Nobody could afford to waste things in this place. Rubbish belonged to the West, not to the subcontinent.

  Sultan had finished his conversation. Hamster-like she shifted the package into her cheek. ‘How much does someone get when they bring in a whisky bottle?’

  ‘For real Scotch, imported Scotch, enough for a dish of dal and chapattis.’

  ‘You have a business here?’

  ‘I have business every part. My business is resembling our great mother Indus. As she nears the ocean she flows into many creeks.’

  ‘And when she reaches the sea you’ll be a millionaire.’

  He laughed, slapping his thigh. The other man gazed politely. She moved the package to the other side. How could she get rid of it? Everyone else spat, the pavements splashed red as if violence had occurred.

  ‘Come.’ Sultan rose to his feet. He brushed down his pyjamas, spick and span. ‘My conveyance is waiting.’

  Her mouth was still stuffed with fibres. He was unlocking his car. What was this job exactly and who was his very good friend? Donald might have made a joke about this: You’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

  She turned and disgorged the mess into her hand. She dropped it on the street. Her hand was smeared red. She could feel the faces above her, peering round shutters. Swiftly she wiped her hand on her trousers; these being black – loose native things – it did not show.

  They swerved away, bumping across the tramlines of Bunder Road, the widest thoroughfare in the Old City. The street was congested and hazy with exhaust smoke. She clutched the window handle. She felt the same as the last time she had sat in this furred interior: a strange mixture of excitement and torpor. In her stomach the lunchtime blancmange, safe nursery food, mixed with the bitter juices she had swallowed. Though a middle-aged man and plumper than Royce, Sultan drove as recklessly. Is this what she wanted, a man with oily hair, foreign to her, driving her too fast?

  The manager’s office was panelled in fake walnut; at first glance it appeared genuine. The air-conditioner was veneered to match; it hummed beneath its blistered laminate. Her clothes cooled against her skin. Outside in the corridor people waited; she had seen them when she was ushered in. Perhaps they had waited all afternoon. None of them had looked surprised to see her enter first; people never did.

  It was an advertising agency. There were no windows. Upon the walls hung Superad’s framed success stories. A photo showed cotton reels: Tasneem Textiles: The Threads of Integrity. Another said: By The Grace of Allah We Are Now A 200-Crore Bank.

  She sat opposite the desk, thinking: there is nobody so suave as a suave Pakistani. The manager, whose name she had failed to catch, was continuing his interrupted telephone conversation and also smiling at her encouragingly. He wore a tie and a spotless white shirt; unlike Sultan he looked the sort of Pakistani she met at cocktail parties. He was middle-aged, with a heavy sculptured face and black corrugated hair like a matinée idol. His sideburns were greying.

  ‘. . . aap sey mil kar baten karney hain Pepsi . . .’

  One of the photos showed a familiar advertisement. It was a tractor standing against the sunset, with a pile of sacks in the foreground. Bags of Success with Camerons Nitrogen-Rich H212 Fertilizer.

  ‘ . . . samaghtey hain Superad, kidder . . .’

  He put the phone down, opened a small, wallpapered cubbyhole and passed the phone back.

  ‘My most sincere apologies, Mrs Manley. Let us return to yourself. I’m so delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He pointed to the photograph. ‘As you see, our little agency is proud to carry the Cameron account. And I counted myself amongst the Smythes’ friends. Charming couple, charming.’

  They gleamed at each other. Donald could hardly object to this. In fact it was almost too respectable. She had expected another dirty alley; she felt both relieved and disappointed. Here she was, back with the Balliol accents.

  ‘Our mutual friend Sultan-sahib says you would like a little part-time work, something to amuse you.’

  ‘I’d like work. I do have a degree in English, and I have done some writing.’ She looked at the photo, silently adding that she could do a good deal better herself. Bags of Success, indeed. ‘I sent a story to a woman’s magazine once, and they wrote a very nice letter back.’

  Through the wall the phone rang. The square of wallpaper opened and an arm offered the receiver. As he spoke she worked on slogans. Here in Karachi she could jump in at the top. Who needed training when one possessed the English language itself?

  ‘ . . . main chahti hun . . .’

  With a new hand at the helm, Cameron will be sailing through the seventies; Donald Manley has his eye on the horizon but his feet on the ground . . .

  She was no longer the wife back home; she was the prop of the company, dining on expenses, like Shamime, at the Intercontinental Tandoori Room.

  ‘ . . . mujhey karney hain . . . Mrs Manley . . .’

  She stiffened. He was looking at her as he spoke. His brown eyes were moist with sincerity. Maybe he was already recommending her to the copywriting department and fixing up a trial campaign. She was sitting behind a desk, rotating thoughtfully on her swivel chair, tapping her teeth with her biro while the Superad Agency waited, poised.

  He passed back the phone. ‘I have been mentioning your good name to an acquaintance of mine. Here at Superad we pride ourselves on the up-to-date styles – our clients include the most modern hotels and the most prominent businesses. Like a tree, we have many branches reaching out in every direction –’

  A knock on the door. Someone entered with an urgent message. She moved on from Cameron Chemicals to Duke’s hotel. Apparently it was going to be built around some wishing lake. He had described it to her. Translux would be a Superad account; she would extol its azure waters (would they understand azure?), the mod cons, and the quaint customs of the surrounding countryside. Above the manager’s desk was a giant Tourist Board advertisement. It was divided into gaily-coloured sections: a village girl looking like Elizabeth Taylor, yachts in full sail, some mellow old mosques she did not recognize, and various costumed groups in festive mood. Welcome to Karachi, it said. Discover the Timeless Mystery of the Orient. Where had they taken the photos? It was not a Pakistan she knew. After seeing that, newcomers might be somewhat surprised by this crammed, humid city with its office blocks, slums and peeling industrial developments. She must make a good job of Duke’s hotel.

  The man left. The manager turned back to her, making a steeple of his hands. ‘Here at Superad, Mrs Manley, we say that we are in the honesty business. We do not bend the truth. I am a devout man. In the Koran, the Prophet tells each man to look into his own heart –’

  The wallpaper opened. He waved the phone away. ‘We do not call black white and white black. That is not our business. If it was, we would not be
the most successful agency in Karachi. More importantly, we would not be sleeping at night. The Muslim, Mrs Manley, is alone with his conscience. He must shed his outer layers and be standing revealed. We are in the appearance business, make no mistake, I do not deny that, but appearances are deceiving. This is what I am reminding myself every hour of every day. Our Prophet has no image. He is not a bearded fellow in the sky, begging your pardon – he is the space where every man is facing his own soul.’

  He came to rest, flexing his fingers. Someone else knocked on the door. He called out something. She wondered about the unrestive queue. The wall clock had stopped at 10.15 but the room had the air of one endless afternoon. Sultan was the same – the frenetic driving, then the relapse into timelessness. All bustle and horn-blowing, then . . . next week, next year, insh’allah. Beach hut? Job? Hand on the heart, eyes vague, phone ringing.

  She paused. ‘So you think I might be able to work with you?’

  ‘It is great good fortune that our paths have crossed each other, facilitated by Sultan-sahib. A fruitful future awaits us, of this I am sure. You have recently arrived in our country, Mrs Manley, I am right? This is our method – I put business his way, he mine. Our emblem, you have perhaps observed, is the joined hands.’ He pointed to a plaque on his empty desk.

  ‘That’s marvellous.’

  ‘Let us get down to the nitty gritty. My photographer, on the telephone, expressed a wish for the trial shots.’

  ‘Photographer?’

  ‘The best in Karachi, let me assure you. He has worked in Madison Avenue, New York City.’ He was gazing at her over the steepled hands. ‘May I speak frankly? I am fifty-six years old and have learnt the lessons. It is a question of many things, amongst them the dress.’

  She sat very still.

  ‘We are in the image business. The image does not tell lies. It is made, how shall I say,’ he moved his hands, ‘more so, or less so, according to the needs.’

  ‘You mean, what I’m wearing?’

  ‘We are fast becoming a prosperous country, but our eyes are looking to the West. In matters of sophistication and the successful life-style, that is. To put it simply: the European face means status – it is conjuring up like magic the good things – the possessions to which our people are turning their hopes and their expectations.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Let my admiration be honest. You have the beautiful peaches and cream complexion and the charming English curls.’

  A Battle Frizz, Donald had called her hair the day she returned from the hairdresser’s. Something about a Brillo Pad.

  ‘Just a little work on the make-up and the clothes.’ He leant forward. Over the slotted fingers his gaze took in her muslin blouse, crumpled from her bazaar wanderings; it took in the black loose trousers with drawstring waist; it took in the rubber flip-flops and her toes, as grimy as a mali’s from her morning in the flowerbed.

  ‘So you don’t want me to write?’

  ‘That is not necessary. Just to observe your good self is recommendation enough. That face, it needs no curriculum vitae.’

  ‘I mean, write advertisements for you?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Mrs Manley, what you possess is precious. Any person who has education can put pen to paper.’

  Sultan Rahim entered. Christine got to her feet. The two men looked pleased with themselves. Was Sultan getting a cut in this? Christine said slowly to herself: I am a model, with an agent. Holding the photographer’s card, she walked to the mirror and was startled to see her red lips. A moment later she realized, of course, that it was the pan.

  17

  Donald swivelled one way then the other, the phone to his ear. The seat creaked, dipped, creaked. The first day in the office he had spent some time swivelling, his only witness the soap lady on the hoarding. Managers needed to swivel, in order to revolve the options.

  Mohammed answered. Memsahib was in the garden. He went to fetch her. Had Mohammed noticed memsahib’s hands at lunchtime, the state of her fingernails?

  Donald gazed at the lady’s painted smile. She held the soap inquiringly, her head tilted. She urged others to keep themselves as clean as she did. Her fingernails were not grubby with toil. She was fixed to the office building opposite; behind her rose the heavy spire of Cameron Chambers. It sat on her head like a crown.

  ‘Sorry,’ Christine’s voice on the phone. ‘Couldn’t turn the hose off. The mali had some terribly complicated arrangement with string.’

  ‘How did it go? I’m glad you’re back in one piece. Do we have a hut?’

  A pause. ‘Well, not quite.’

  ‘I thought this chap was such a whizz kid.’ Dip, creak. Swivelling in his chair, he filled his voice with authority.

  ‘Not a kid. He’s middle-aged.’

  ‘Any joy with the job?’ His voice sharper, because she had run away into the bazaar like that.

  The line crackled. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh dear. Are you disappointed?’

  ‘Something will turn up.’

  ‘Look. I’ll be a bit late because I’m dropping in at Mrs Gracie’s. You know, the donkey woman. Would you like to come?’

  She said not. She sounded rather distant, or perhaps just preoccupied. Maybe she was going over their quarrel, as he had done all afternoon. Putting down the phone, he pictured the beach hut. The harder it was to procure the more he wanted it. Beside the sea he might recapture her – Christine Trimmer, washed clean of prejudice and preconceptions. Chrissy Trimmer; her maiden name had suited her. Sheltering in his towel; pulling her summer dress modestly over her knees. Her hair hanging wet and innocent as it used to. They would be truly alone; there would be nobody for whom she must alter. But by now perhaps she was too much altered herself.

  On the wall hung the long staff photographs. The most recent were the least yellowed. Mr and Mrs I. Grant (1969–1973). Mr and Mrs F. T. Smythe (1973–1975). Ann Smythe looked a remarkably pretty woman in a pale summer suit. Soon the latest edition would be added to the collection. The photograph had been taken yesterday. There Christine would be printed, wearing jeans. Would they not find this insulting? She might be trying to be all democratic, as she tried so embarrassingly with Mohammed, but would they understand to take it that way? The awful thing was that however offended they felt, none of them except Shamime would in a hundred years venture to say so.

  It was nearly six. He packed his briefcase. When he bent, his shirt chafed his burnt shoulders. For the first week or so he had made sure that at 5.30, when the office closed, he was fiddling around in the communal Accounts Section so that he could say goodbye, and so that they could observe himself remaining in the office later, as befitted his responsibilities. Nowadays he did not feel he had to bother, which was one step forward. In fact there had been several steps forward. Though he had not entirely got the hang of the job yet, though gazing at the figures filled him with an exhilarated fear, though he was only just adjusting to the labyrinthine contacts and to a certain tempo, or lack of it, or unpredictability of it, in business dealings here, yet for the first time in his life he felt really at home. If only he could rely upon Christine feeling at home too.

  He swivelled round. The soap lady gazed back. Close up, no doubt, her painted eyes were daubed brushstrokes and her face crude. But across the street she seemed reliable. Each day she was there. First thing in the morning, an angle of shadow lay across her brow, making her more severe. During his half-hectic, half-slumbrous office days her face stood behind him, his wooden support.

  He had not, for many years, stood outside a woman’s house with a manufactured excuse. Despite her age Mrs Gracie was so feminine; she made him feel like a suitor.

  The old bearer, whose name he had temporarily forgotten, opened the door and walked upstairs, beckoning him to follow. Up on the landing, sunlight shone through the veranda. The bearer climbed the stairs, his pyjamas tucked up like a washerman’s. Donald followed the thin ankles and cracked, grey heels.

  Th
ey walked along the veranda. There were few of these old houses with verandas left in Karachi. Much of the fretwork was broken; thick cobwebs hung like skirts from the ceiling. From an open door further down came the sound of singing. He had a sudden picture of Iona Gracie, years younger, dressed in a nightie and spinning flax.

  In fact the song came from a radio. This was evidently the living-room as well as the bedroom. She rose to her feet, admirably spry.

  ‘It’s Ronald. How delightful.’ She touched her fine red curls and went across to the radio. ‘My favourite companion.’ Was this himself or the wireless?

  Today she wore navy slacks and an apron. Her curls were pushed back by a navy band. It seemed appealing to wear lipstick in the seclusion of this upper room; to make up her face for the voice on the radio. She sent the bearer away for tea.

  ‘I’ve brought my cheque-book this time,’ said Donald, this being his excuse to see her again. ‘So I can join this adoption scheme. I didn’t forget, you see.’

  ‘Kind boy. Just look at this mess.’

  He gazed around the room. There was no denying its untidiness – curled photos jammed into picture frames, junky old furniture that did not fit the room. A broken chandelier hung from the ceiling. The dressing-table was crammed with pots and jars; the wardrobe was so full that the doors could not be closed. Obviously the whole house had silted up and this was the last refuge. He was about to demur, politely, when he realized that she was pointing to the floor. It was spread with newspapers and broken china.

  ‘Iqbal’s too old. I should never have entrusted him with the Staffordshire. I usually don’t. But as it was the Minister I thought we should bring out the best.’

  ‘Iqbal dropped it?’

  ‘Two cups, two saucers, milk jug and that delightful teapot. Ronald, I’m desolate. The last of our wedding set. I’m glad Morris isn’t alive, he would have sacked him.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Oh please. Would you care to join me on the floor?’