‘Whose ear? Who’s doing your whispering?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Who’s your fixer?’
‘Ma’am, I have no fixer.’
‘Oh Duke, don’t look so stiff.’ She laughed. ‘You know what I mean. The man who knows the right people. Heavens, you didn’t arrive here yesterday. And haven’t you been out in the Gulf?’
‘Sure. Kuwait.’
‘Well, you built a hotel. Don’t tell me that got set up without a crate or two of Scotch.’
‘Ma’am, it did not.’ He moved in his seat. The Coffee Shop was styled in laminates, all easy-wipe. Tables screwed to the floor, plastic seating soldered firmly in place. Solid American workmanship.
Shamime pushed back her hair. That greeny brow. When she moved, her blouse changed colour; it was made of some thin, shifting stuff. It disturbed him. You could not pin anyone down in this shifting country, they trickled like water through your fingers. ‘Sure I know what happens,’ he said. ‘Some guy’s car gets its import licence, some other guy gets an air-conditioner permission through, things are made easier for someone close to the top.’
‘You have to know the right people.’
‘Sure. I know the right people. They walk through this hotel lobby each day. They’re in the Boat Club and the Sind Club. I know them but not, with respect, the way you mean.’
‘I’ll have a word with Bobby.’
‘Bobby?’
‘My uncle.’
That was the minister. ‘No sir.’
‘He’s an awful ninny but he’ll do anything for me. And he likes his tipple.’
‘Ma’am, I don’t like to offend, but . . .’
‘Just tell me exactly what needs to be done, so I can tell him.’
‘I won’t. Thank you all the same.’ He looked down. Tempting, Tempting said the menu. ‘Myself, I don’t work like that. Nope.’
Shamime looked amused. She scraped out her glass. She had the most delicate hands he had ever seen.
‘Tell me about your father,’ she said.
‘My father? You want to know about him?’
‘I want to know about you.’
Duke paused. ‘He owned a laundromat. He was a religious man. He was honest. He worked his way up in the business till he had a place of his own. Nothing fancy – eight front-loaders, nickels in the slot. We had an apartment above it. My mother came downstairs for the service washes.’
‘Service?’
‘The customer left the clothes and she loaded them. Plenty of working wives did that and collected them in the evening. My mother took a pride in it. They called it the cleanest laundromat in Topeka. Something you don’t need here, a laundromat.’
‘You mean because of the dhobies?’
‘You live with your parents?’
She nodded.
‘I guess you have plenty of servants.’
She started to count her red fingernails. ‘. . . six, seven . . .’ She gave up. ‘They were proud of you? They gave you such an aristocratic name.’
He nodded. ‘My father was a lay preacher, a Baptist. Say, you don’t want to listen to this.’
‘I do want to listen to this. It’s fascinating.’
‘He preached in the chapel around the corner, evenings. He was a well-respected man. The family came from Scotland, way back.’
‘Washing the clothes clean by day and the souls clean by night. Tough job.’
Duke laughed. ‘Hadn’t struck me like that.’
‘And you worked your way out of that, through college. America, land of opportunity. Newspaper-sellers give birth to Presidents.’
Was she laughing at him? He rubbed his nose.
She paused. ‘And your wife?’
‘Minnie? She worked as a stenographer the first place I went to. An engineering corporation. We met at the dance.’
Shamime was lighting a cigarette. Duke felt awkward. He could see no reason why she should want to talk to him; besides, shouldn’t she be back at work? She took her job so casually, yet she ran rings around them at Cameron’s, she was so smart.
The conversation came to an end. He had not talked like this for some time; not personal talk. Since Minnie left he had spent his days trying to make himself understood down the telephone and trying to contact government agencies. He was a man of action not words. Besides, nobody talked much about the past here because they came from all over the world. Even the Pakistanis – most of them came from India, their past was over there beyond the closed border. Shamime stood up, her black hair swinging.
‘You haven’t forgotten tomorrow? The beach.’
He shook his head, and she left. Tomorrow was Minnie’s day. Minnie was taking it badly; she had kept saying, ‘It’s the end of an era.’ She read books on subjects like that – coming to terms with middle-age, growing kids, her digestive tract. Here in Pakistan you accepted things; you had to. But in the States all the wives read these books, dense pages of print to consolidate their anxieties. New publications announced new topics for self-doubt. He was proud of her command of the terms but worried that she seemed to need them. Surely a hug could solve most everything. I wish you were here, he thought. He would book a call tonight, to reassure her. He had spent so long telling her it made no difference and that thousands of women a year had it done that he had not stopped to wonder if he himself minded.
He walked past the tables. Young people sat around. Shamime was so young; he was old enough to be her father. She had scraped out her ice cream like a child.
Christine Manley sat there, writing postcards. She looked sunburnt; kind of flushed.
‘You been doing some sightseeing?’ he asked.
She paused. ‘I’ve seen some sights,’ she said, with a little smile.
There was so much for her to see. Like Shamime, her era was just beginning. She would have babies. The end of an era, Minnie had said. He felt old and confused. It must be that darned contract.
8
Cameron Chambers was built of heavy stone, brown as liver. It inspired confidence. Constructed in 1890 it was Karachi’s finest monument to Indian Gothic. It was Bradford Central Railway Station; it was Leeds Town Hall. Then you looked again at the straw blinds and those dusty palms. Strong convictions had built it; it might have stood there for centuries and it could last for centuries more. Donald considered it just right. It belonged. New stuff rose up all around – the I.B.M. building, the Habib Bank skyscraper – but they looked bland and flimsy. They paid lip service to the country, with their plywood Moghul arches, but they were imports. That Cameron’s itself had supplied their paints and plastics was business, and business was in the head, not the heart.
Adam Cameron had been a Scot and a strong Methodist, a man of character. He had built up his company from a corner shop and in the 1880s brought it out East. In common with several other British concerns, Cameron’s became a name connected with the subcontinent. In those days they manufactured soaps, paints, mosquito repellents and Cameron’s Tonic Wine, based on a secret glycero-phosphate formula. Old Man Cameron was the best advertisement for his own pick-me-up; his bewhiskered face was printed upon every bottle. Despite the beard there was some resemblance, in Donald’s mind, to Duke Hanson. The same straight gaze; frontiersmen both, men of belief. In the old days the Tonic Wine had been sold in Britain too. From his childhood Donald remembered the Brinton corner shop (always behind the times) whose wall had carried the metal plaque beside the Bovril and Lipton’s Tea. Rusted with age, it showed the famous face and a scrolled list of all the ailments from which the drinker would gain immediate relief. Production had stopped in 1950 and the only plaque he had recently seen was upon the kitchen wall of one of Christine’s friends. ‘For Nervous Spasms,’ she had said, laughing, ‘Lassitude and Wind.’
Cameron’s had manufactured and sold through the big emporiums: the Army and Navy of Calcutta, Bentalls of Bombay. Much of their trade had been with the army – shirt stiffeners in particular. Donald’s own grandfather,
Lieutenant-Colonel Manley, had no doubt appeared more formidable thanks to Cameron’s Hot Season Starch. Don’t Let the Troops Droop.
But the starch had gone and with it the British. India had changed; this part was Pakistan now. Cameron’s had changed. It was Cameron Chemicals now and had expanded into plastics and fertilizer, with its own pharmaceutical division. It had other international interests. There were branches in Australia and Hong Kong. They were the important ones now. Even Bombay branch was larger than this. Here in Pakistan the English had been squeezed out; nowadays, with the government’s policy of native managers and nationalization, Donald himself was the only European and he was not the top dog – only Sales Manager, with a Pakistani Director and Chairman above him. In his office hung the old photographs, rows of faces as at school; behind them the blurred sepia arches of Cameron Chambers. Each year the white faces were reduced in number, and now there was only one.
And Cameron Chambers had been taken over as government offices. Ten years ago Cameron’s had moved to Adamjee Plaza, a functional block with a rubber plant in the foyer and rows of rusting windows. Cameron Chemicals occupied four floors. By leaning back in his chair Donald could glimpse one turret of the old building several streets away. It pointed into the blue sky. Otherwise it was obscured by newly-erected office blocks on the same lines as Adamjee Plaza, 1950s style and already shabby. Opposite his window was a hoarding attached to one of these buildings. Upon it was painted a large oriental lady’s face, cocked coyly and holding up a bar of Tibet Soap. Manufactured, it said below, by the Karachi Sanitary Corporation. In idle moments he caught her eye. She seemed to be asking him a question.
It was noon. Outside the buildings looked blanched in the heat. Inside there was the rattle and hum of the air-conditioner. Saturday; in a few moments the office would be closing down for the weekend. Back home Mohammed would be finishing his morning duties and retiring to his quarters; Saturdays he left out cold cuts. He himself ought to be returning home and making love to Christine. The unusual time of day, siesta hour, might make the whole thing more spontaneous than usual.
A tap on the door. Mr Samir came in.
‘Figures, Mr Manley, for the fertilizer plant.’
‘Ah, thank you.’ Part of him wished to be called Donald. After all, Mr Samir was his second-in-command. Yet this formality flattered him too. With the exception of Shamime he was treated with grave respect by all his staff, most of whom had double his age and experience.
Mr Samir took a seat while Donald flicked through the papers. Should he perhaps set the precedent by calling him Ayub? A new fertilizer factory had recently been opened upcountry, in Upper Sind.
‘Do you know what Shamime told me yesterday?’ said Donald. ‘That the British are to blame for this state of affairs.’
‘I am sorry?’
‘That our – that British canals were responsible for the salinity of this whole province. Something about the drainage leaving a salt sediment.’
‘I am most surprised.’ Mr Samir frowned, probably not because of the facts but because he disapproved of Shamime. ‘I think that it was a most barren region before the British arrived. I think that it is due to the British that there is any sort of fertility at all.’
There was silence; but a relaxed one, as it was the end of the week.
‘What was my predecessor like? The famous Mr Smythe?’ Perhaps Mr Samir had called him Frank. Donald could not bear it if he had.
‘A very charming gentleman. Most athletic and respected. Something of a sportsman, as was his lady wife.’
‘She was chairman of the British Wives’ Association, wasn’t she?’
‘She was most active in those spheres. Mrs Manley, she belongs to the Association?’
Donald paused. ‘She hasn’t quite got around to it yet.’ He refrained from mentioning Christine’s vow never to set foot in the place. I came to Pakistan, she had said, not Tunbridge Wells.
‘It is primarily for the kiddies, I believe,’ said Mr Samir. ‘There is swimming pool and social facilities, and kiddies’ parties. That was told to me by Mrs Smythe.’
‘Well, that counts us out,’ he gave a little laugh, ‘so far.’
‘We have a saying: there is no time that is better than next year. You have no doubt seen that this applies to business. Above all, perhaps, in the case of offspring.’
Donald rubbed his nose. With a little smile he asked: ‘How many do you have, er, Ayub? Your wife told me once.’
‘More than sufficient, you might say. Three boys and two girls.’ Mr Samir cast his eyes down, perhaps out of modesty. This small man, in his shiny suit, had produced five children.
They both gave another little laugh. Donald turned his attention to the fertilizer figures. The factory in Sukkur produced 1,200 tons of nitrogen-based compounds per month. He, Donald, was responsible for the selling and distribution of enough soil enricher for 500 square miles of otherwise barren desert. Remaining, apparently, unable to fertilize his wife.
He looked at his watch and closed the file. ‘Half-past twelve. Um, Ayub, do you know where Fotheringay Road is? I’ve been searching all over the place. People keep giving me the wrong directions. I don’t think anyone knows, but they don’t seem to care to say so.’ Mr Samir stroked his bald head. ‘It’s where my grandfather lived. Somewhere near the old Military Lines.’
‘The majority of them have been knocked down. You have asked me this before. And then the names have been changed.’
‘That’s what makes it so tricky. Sorry to go on about it. My wife and I drove round last weekend. No one seems to make any maps.’ Not adding: the British were the last who did.
‘The city has multiplied so much and so fast. Each year the maps must be changed.’ He shrugged, like an Italian waiter saying the restaurant is closed. ‘So we have no maps.’
Indeed, in Frank Smythe’s business address book, written in that familiar, confident hand, most of the places said Behind this, or Opposite that, or Two Blocks from the Paradise Picture House. There were so few street names. No doubt it had all made sense to Frank.
Mr Samir had excused himself and left. In a few moments he returned.
‘I had a little brainwave,’ he said. ‘Our eldest peon has been living in that district for many years. I have asked him your question and he has come up with the answer. He thinks it might be now named Ajazuddin Road.’
When the office closed Donald drove off. He would have one last try before he went home. Though interested during their first couple of searches, Christine now presumed 56 Fotheringay Road to be extinct and had rather fallen off in her support. At some point she had seemed to stop searching with him and start looking at him instead. In recent months she had grown so swiftly critical of what he did. Unfortunately, a change of country did not seem to be altering that. She probably thought that his anxiety for roots stemmed from some basic lack of identity. No doubt at some point she would want to talk this through.
He slowed down behind a donkey cart. Other cars hooted their horns and swerved to pass. The driving here alarmed him. This was the main business street, once called Inverarity Street and now re-named I.I. Chundrigar Road. It was filled with exhaust fumes and hectic Toyota taxis. At every crossroads policemen stood on plinths, waving their batons and swivelling as if they were conducting an orchestra.
Was he weak, to look back to this city’s past and prefer the crumbling buildings sagging between the office blocks? Christine, artistic and romantic, preferred them too, but then muddled it all up with Raj Oppression, British Imperialism, all that stuff. That made it difficult to talk. Clichés kept popping up and blocking the conversation, her expression changed, her pupils shrank when she talked like that.
Cameron Chambers loomed up on his left. Solid dark stone. Above the door had been fixed a placard saying Government of Sind: Division 3. However, above each first-floor window was still carved the double C, knotted with stone foliage; the building could not rub away its old identity so easily. It wa
s a landmark; in an address book you would write Two Blocks from . . . Once he had overheard a man say: ‘We will make a rendezvous outside see-see.’ It had taken him a moment to realize, with a twitch of loyalty, that the man meant C.C.
On the pavement, scribes were packing up their typewriters; the offices were closed now for the weekend. During the week men would squat there dictating letters and petitions to be delivered inside. Within the building, no doubt, those letters would be piled up from years back, wedged in dusty corners. Bureaucratic red tape was something you had to come to terms with, here. He was discovering this, his cabinets silting up with official forms; Duke, too, appeared to be suffering considerable difficulties in getting his Translux off the ground. Doubtless Christine would blame this, too, on the British.
He slowed down behind a bus. It belched fumes; men clung to its sides, their clothes flapping. It looked like some extinct beast burdened with wings. His heart beat faster in this detective search. Wisps of half-remembered conversations hung most strangely around these foreign streets. One or two things, like those horse-driven tongas, were similar enough to click together with the past. But most of the city had changed too much to be recognizable. This had made him more determined, much to Christine’s surprise. But he could at least do this for his grandfather. He had loved Grandad but he had never said so; he had been too self-conscious for that. He felt guilty for all the times he had not listened, and for being up in London when Grandad had died and asked for him. When he had arrived it was too late.
Of course it was too late now. Much good this would do anyone. But then the rituals at a funeral did not help the dead one, did they? It was the living who were eased.
He knew some facts, having copied them into a notebook before he arrived in Karachi. Prior to Independence Grandad had served in Quetta, Karachi, then Cawnpore and somewhere outside Allahabad in what was to become India. Granny had come out to Karachi; they had married here in the church. He himself had visited it, of course. The place looked neglected now; children played ball games in the dust of the compound.
Hot Water Man Page 5
