Hot Water Man

by Deborah Moggach

  That afternoon he had to drive out some twenty miles to visit a Government of Sind Fertility Station. This was a new project with experimental strip-testing of various compounds, a drainage scheme and a new legume crop being planted. The road led out past Ginntho Pir into the desert beyond. A few villages were visible from the road. They all looked the same: obscure, mud-walled huts hemmed in by piled-up scrub. From the distance they scarcely showed – mere dun irregularities, blocks and tangles natural as rocks in the landscape. In the nearer ones you could see, through the thorn scrub, penned goats and the women who rose from their haunches with earthenware pots on their shoulders. Cattle dung had been slapped on the walls of the huts, to dry in the sun and burn for fuel. Behind the walls, what went on was as closed and incomprehensible as in another century. And besides, the wench is dead.

  Here he sat behind the khaki shoulders of his driver. In a village like that a boy had crouched in the dust, years ago, as those children were squatting now. His surname should have been Manley. Donald would never know who he was. Perhaps the man still lived in a village like that; he must be over fifty-five years old now, a little older than Donald’s own father would have been, had he lived. Perhaps the man had died or gone away. Perhaps he had moved to Karachi. One of those men past whom Donald had pushed in the crowded streets – one of them could have been his own half-uncle.

  ‘Sahib is all right?’

  Donald managed to open his eyes, and sat up straight. Jalal the driver was looking at him in the mirror.

  ‘Fine. It’s just a little hot.’

  At the Fertility Station Donald stood in the concrete porch, asking the director the correct questions about chemical mix and crop results. In front stretched the fields edged with raised mud walls, like the plasticine models he had made as a child. Water had been pumped along the ditches; the earth was damp as putty. Green shoots grew in the various strips, some sparse, some thicker.

  ‘Soon I hope we are having some rain,’ said the director. ‘Generally in August there is a little rainfall. You are feeling the heat, Mr Manley?’

  Donald nodded. ‘Just a little.’

  ‘And you have a family out here?’

  ‘A wife, yes. No children.’

  He could have added: but my grandfather had a child here. Somewhere he sowed a seed. One child grew, perhaps paler than the others. Lost now.

  On the return journey the car approached Ginntho Pir. From this side the mound rose above the small collection of huts. As yet Donald had not visited the place; he was waiting to do so with Christine. On top of the hill, shaded by trees, the shrine stood behind the large old mausoleum. As the car passed, it slid slowly behind the larger building, its white walls disappearing from sight. These people went there to pray. For what? For a child to be born, for a child not to die, for some impossibility to happen. Perhaps the woman had knelt in there, once. He himself would feel like an intruder. The humbler the place, the more private it seemed. He turned to look out of the back window; as the car drove down the road, past the bushes and the bazaar, the little shrine again slid into view, smaller in the distance. He felt oddly moved by its absurd plaster turrets. Somebody had tied flags around them – flags showing loyalty to no country, only to faith. Why? He knew nothing; he must try to understand.

  Back at the office there were some telephone messages on his desk, left by Mary. One said ‘Please ring Mrs Gracie.’

  He sat down. It was six o’clock; he could quite reasonably put it off until tomorrow. He knew what she would say – that she had thought out a tactical plan of attack and that she was relying on him to do a, b or c. She still had no idea who he was, or his connection with the proposed development. If it came to a confrontation the whole thing could be extremely awkward. His loyalties should lie with Cameron’s, of course, but he would prefer this not to be tested.

  She answered. ‘Ah Ronald dear. I just had to tell you, I’ve been rummaging through my desk trying to find the lease as I promised and you wouldn’t guess what I found instead.’

  A pause for effect. He could picture her breathless in that sombre hall, her hairband askew. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘A bundle of my mother’s letters. They were written to her friend Annie Kershaw in Surrey. Annie must have returned them to us after Mama’s death, they’re absolutely riveting. I want to read you something. Ready?’

  He grunted, nodding, and pushed his swivel chair round. The Tibet lady faced him, holding the soap. She looked dumb, suppliant and beautiful. Perhaps his grandfather’s woman had looked at him like that.

  ‘It’s about your grandfather’s friend, that Marnley. You said you wanted every scrap I could find for the book.’

  He sat up, alert. ‘That’s right.’ He had forgotten that he had told her his grandmother was writing her memoirs, hence the need for information. He loathed lying; he had managed to forget this one already.

  ‘Here it is. There’s a bit about some regimental parade, who fainted and so on, then this: “The usual rash of confinements this winter, Winnie Atwood had a girl, Mrs Herrick a big bouncing boy, eight pounds, and scandal scandal, I know you like all the tit-bits Annie dear, on the servants’ grapevine this morning I heard that the native so-called sweeper of a Major in the Kentish Fusiliers, a woman called Moni, had a boy born last week. Ayah’s aunt was the midwife. Ho hum, nothing unusual here, men will be men, my dear.” Then she goes on about a garden party. The dates fitted, Ronald. I just thought you’d like to know, so you can fit in the woman’s name. If indeed one wants to include such things.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘Most useful. Moni.’ He put down the receiver.

  Moni. He gazed at the hoarding. He sat still for some minutes, rubbing his forefinger from side to side, across the surprisingly dense hairs of his new moustache.

  He did not drive straight home. At the Sind Club junction, the boy who usually sold him Newsweek waved a copy, grinning, as Donald turned the car left, towards Clifton. It was the only clue he had and he was unlikely to get any more. It was a miracle he knew this much after all these years, when so many things had been changed out of recognition.

  The road to Clifton, for instance. In his grandfather’s day Clifton, built upon the only hill for miles, had been an elegant residential suburb. The sea had not been drained then; Clifton had been something of a resort, with an esplanade, a telescope and the sedate amusements of an Indian Brinton. In the days of the Raj the British families had lived there, and it was separated from the city by a stretch of causeway.

  Now the sea had been drained, leaving miles of salt-bleached desert. All along the Clifton Road apartment blocks were being built, below them the empty canyons of garages and future supermarkets. The bleak buildings were softened in the evening light. Cameron’s, amongst others, was helping push this country into the twentieth century. Surprisingly, he was a part of this. Between the blocks you could still glimpse vacant land marked out with posts. Goat herds picked their way around the cars parked by the Mid-East Medical Center, with its sprinkled lawns. Soon Clifton would be joined to Karachi. He negotiated the roundabout, with its Islamic Progress Monument, bright steel gleaming with hope, pointing up to the sky.

  He drove into Clifton. The street was wide and empty here, lined with trees which were now casting long shadows across the road. The old bungalows resembled those near the Sind Club where Mrs Gracie lived. He drove up the hill and stopped outside the Dutch Consulate.

  Across the street stood the pink bungalow. Its gates were open. Outside stood a huge tree with creepers hanging; perhaps this was a banyan, his grandfather had spoken about boys swinging in the banyans. Perhaps this too was a lie. Behind it the building looked unreal in this radiant light, like a pink, pillared wedding cake left outside too long.

  He rang the bell. Closer, the paint was blistered. In this climate nothing remained new for long. The door was opened by a moustached bearer in white shirt and trousers. Donald paused. The furnishings looked sumptuous. He did not know ho
w to begin.

  ‘I’m looking for a woman,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you could help me.’

  ‘I will fetch memsahib.’

  ‘No, not memsahib. This was a long time ago. It concerns the servants, you see.’ The bearer could not be over forty, but Donald felt reckless. For once he did not mind what anyone thought. ‘Is there an older servant here perhaps, who has been in this residence a long time?’

  ‘I do not understand. You are wanting sahib?’

  ‘Er no. There was recently perhaps an older bearer here, or perhaps a cook?’

  A Pakistani woman appeared, glittering with jewellery and very plump. No, on second glance pregnant. She shook his hand. ‘Good evening.’ She paused. ‘I believe we’ve met before. The Boat Club, perhaps? You are the new man at Cameron Chemicals. We were acquainted, too, with Mr Frank Smythe.’

  He introduced himself. For a moment he had forgotten his job.

  ‘Yes, and my husband he works for Ciba-Geigy. That will explain it. We met at the reception. He will be returning in a moment. Please do come in and sit down.’ She turned to the bearer and seemed to be ordering drinks.

  He hesitated in the hall. ‘Actually, I really wanted to talk to your servants. I know it sounds funny.’ He looked around at the various open doors. ‘Have any of them been here for a long time?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘We have been here since nine years. I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know. Have any of your servants been here long?’

  ‘The servants? You are wishing to know about the servants?’

  Donald rubbed his moustache, nodding. His face was hot.

  ‘The cook, he has just arrived from another residence. The bearer, Mumtaz, he is here when we shifted to Clifton. You are wanting a servant perhaps? You need a cook-bearer?’

  Donald felt like a private detective, a shabby intruder fired by the chase. ‘Well no, not quite.’ He turned to Mumtaz, who had not gone for the drinks. ‘You have worked here a long time?’

  ‘Since eleven years, sahib. Before this, in Lahore sahib’s residence.’

  ‘Ah. Not long enough.’

  The bearer coughed. ‘But mali, he is working here for very long years.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hot with embarrassment, Donald looked at the hall sofa. It bore a row of plump silk cushions. They too seemed waiting for him to make himself plain. ‘Is he around?’

  ‘Not until tomorrow,’ said the woman. ‘He is gone now.’

  ‘You don’t by any chance know where he lives? I’m terribly sorry to be such a nuisance.’

  ‘He has done something wrong? I have never quite been trusting him.’

  ‘Heavens no. I’d just like to visit him to ask him about someone.’

  ‘I see. He has a friend you want as mali. I don’t know where he is living. I don’t know his name. I am just calling him mali.’

  ‘He lives backside.’ The bearer pointed through the lounge door. This could mean any distance. The three of them stood there for some moments.

  ‘Mumtaz, jao. Take Mr Manley.’

  Donald muttered his thanks to the pregnant lady, whose name he had not caught. She must think he was mad. But the English were mad, weren’t they. This did not ease his blushes.

  They walked out of the front gates. As they turned the corner, a silver Mercedes drove in behind them. He heard the car door slam, and raised voices speaking in Urdu. By this time he was out of sight down a steep path between the two compound walls. The ground dropped sharply here. He stooped to avoid the thorn bushes.

  The path smelt of excrement. Ahead of him, dazzlingly white, walked his guide through this jungle. The earth was scattered with rubbish and dung. A pariah dog yapped at his trousers. The bearer walked swiftly; Donald hastened to keep up. Through the thin bushes ahead he could see some huts. He realized that a settlement clung to the side of Clifton, hidden from the houses above by the drop of the hill.

  Now he was closed into a narrow lane, picking his way along a ditch that ran down the centre. It was sickeningly smelly. A radio played. Evening meals were being prepared, with cooking odours and clatter. On either side rooms were full of families; faces turned to stare but he did not like to pry too closely, they were so exposed. But then so was he. He hurried after Mumtaz who had turned up another lane. A hundred yards up the hill this man would have been serving him whisky and soda.

  The huts were packed along either side. Children ran after him; a man shouted. In the twilight he slipped in the mud.

  The bearer had moved into a doorway. Donald followed him. He blinked in the electric light. He was standing in a small room. Two women and some children disappeared through a fringed plastic hanging. An old man remained, lying on a rope bed.

  Whether this was the mali he did not ever discover; he might just have been an old man with the longest memory. Donald cleared his throat and smiled. The bearer acted as interpreter, though how much he understood Donald could not guess. Donald told the old man how many years it was. Would they think in the same span as he did? Time altered according to your expectations of what life had to offer. He told him about an English army sahib called Manley, and the woman’s name, Moni. Speaking it now, he realized that it might be a Hindu rather than Muslim name; after all, this was years before the separation of the two countries. If she had been Hindu the family that survived her would certainly have fled to India. If the family still existed; if indeed anyone still possibly knew.

  He sat on the edge of the charpoy, sipping tea. The wooden frame dug into his thighs. The old man was sitting at the other end. He seemed to weigh nothing; it was Donald who sunk the thing down. Perhaps none of them understood what he was getting at. Did they realize they had something he needed? The women and children had returned to squat in the corner. Another man, also elderly, had arrived. His voice joined in the conversation, which sounded more like an argument. The women were talking now. Moni, he heard, their voices rising. They were too young; they could have no idea whom he was seeking. The argument seemed to be taken out of his hands. His legs had become numb but he did not like to move. By now other men were crowding the doorway.

  With a scrape, someone dragged in a chair. They gestured that he should sit on it. Somebody shooed away a child. He rose with difficulty, stickily, and sat down. Everyone’s eyes were upon him. He felt both the culprit and the honoured guest. He did not know which he was supposed to be. He addressed the second elderly man, who wore glasses and who seemed the most respected voice in the discussion.

  ‘Moni is dead,’ he tried to explain. ‘I look’, he pointed to his eyes, ‘for Moni’s son.’ He had forgotten the word for ‘son’. He could hardly indicate someone small, when his uncle would be over fifty years old. If indeed he was still alive. He looked around for the bearer, but Mumtaz had gone.

  More men had arrived. With the rise and fall of the voices he felt his own hopes rise and diminish. Fifty years in a settled country was long enough but fifty years here seemed beyond any reckoning what with wars, and poverty, and families scattered like matchsticks over three countries on the tide of events his grandfather had helped to promote. Little shanty towns like this grew up overnight and then were destroyed without a trace. Up on the hill, in the big bungalows, nobody would even notice.

  Men gestured and shouted; perhaps they just wanted him to get out. The light caught their wrist watches. What were they talking about? The room was filled with cheap cigarette smoke. Some of the words might be names, for all he knew. He felt like a child listening but not comprehending, back in Brinton at the beginning of his ignorance. Perhaps he should not have listened then.

  Somebody touched his arm. It was the old man in the glasses. He pointed to Donald’s chest. Donald inquiringly pressed his hand to his heart. The man wanted his pen. Donald took it from his breast pocket and gave it to him; the man passed it to someone else. Donald thought: perhaps they want my wallet. The talking grew louder. Another man leant down, pointed to Donald’s knee and tapped it. The old m
an said something he could not understand, leant forward and fingered the sleeve of Donald’s bush shirt. Donald sat rigid.

  Another hand reached out and pointed to Donald’s buttons, one by one. Donald buttoned up the top one, which was undone. He tried to keep smiling like a guest. Perhaps they were going to tear off his clothes. Perhaps they were going to get their own back. His shirt stuck to him damply.

  A piece of paper was put into his hand. Mumtaz was pushing his way back through the other men. The man in the glasses nodded. The paper read: Saleem Beg. Near Petrol Pump, Commercial West Colony, Karachi.

  ‘This is son of Moni,’ said Mumtaz. ‘This,’ he pointed, ‘his location.’

  The old man pointed again to Donald’s shirt, then made looping movements in the air. At last Donald understood.

  ‘Each day,’ said Mumtaz, ‘he is sitting here. He is tailor.’

  21

  ‘Ah, the fair tones of Mrs Manley.’

  ‘I was just phoning . . . you never seem to be in your office.’

  ‘My deepest apologies. I am going hither and thither.’

  ‘I was just wondering about the beach hut.’

  ‘No problem. I have the beautiful beach houses in my files.’

  ‘Oh good.’ She felt the usual bafflement. Had he forgotten that she wanted one, then? She said: ‘And there was just one other thing. You are really the only person who might know. I’ve heard about a sort of shrine. I think it’s a shrine. A place with hot water.’

  ‘You are wanting the sightseeing jaunt? This will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Well, sort of. Do you know the place?’

  ‘Any place you want, I will be taking you.’

  Mohammed, waiting for his cue, took the receiver she passed him. He was, she hoped, going to explain the directions. He spoke in Urdu, seemingly for a long time but then it always seemed a lengthy process when the language was unknown, as a journey seems endless when the road is unfamiliar and the destination expected around every corner. Besides, as Donald remarked, in Pakistani conversations ten words will always do instead of one. Mohammed stood with his back to her. Perhaps instead of road directions he was discussing herself. He must know her secrets – he emptied the waste-paper basket, he brought her bed-tea in the mornings; he was the true inmate of this house, rather than their temporary, rented selves.