She opened the page. It was a head shot, grey and slightly blurred. But not blurred enough. The Smile of Confidence, said the advertisement. I need feminine protection. The very best. And the Most Safe. Join me by use of Tahira, Pakistan’s first Tampon.
In the next room the sofa creaked. A grunt.
Quickly she took her knife and slit the page along the fold. Her hand was trembling; the cut was torn. She gave this up; instead she pulled out the whole two-page spread of news and shuffled the rest of the paper back together. Nobody would notice the page numbers. A screech as she scraped back her chair and hurried over to the wastepaper basket. She screwed up the paper and put it at the bottom, under the rest of the rubbish.
27
Nearly noon, and Duke was back in his office. He put his head in his hands; the sick bulk of his body punished him. Never, even in the army, had he made himself that senseless.
He had drawn down the blind. Out in the street stood the shops Shamime visited and maybe would be visiting again; he could not see them now.
I had five sittings for some shoes at Faizuddin Leather House. I kept on finding something wrong with them, just so I could sit there and see your window. Me, Shamime, behaving like that! Up there in your office I thought you could tell. Once I saw you standing and stretching. Your shirt lifted up and showed your furry gut. How can I love this man? I thought. My love.
Since the news about the site thanks to God he had been busy. Yesterday he had spent hours on the phone trying to contact the cement contractors, the shippers and the Port Authority. His business seemed to function beyond him, in an overdrive of its own. He seemed to make sense to these people when he spoke.
He lifted his head from his hands and phoned the ministry, but the Minister was not there. It was a minor formality about land tax, the last small detail that needed settling.
He spoke to Mr Kasim, who had accompanied Shamime and himself to the site a week or two ago.
‘Pardon me,’ said Duke. ‘I’m not getting you clear.’
The line was faint and crackling. Through it he heard Mr Kasim clear his throat.
‘Still not getting you,’ said Duke. His head ached this morning; the crackling was amplified in chambers through his brain. He caught ‘delicate’ and ‘unexpected’.
‘Delicate what?’ he said.
‘. . . grave matters . . . all most unfortunate, Mr Hanson . . .’ More crackling.
‘Shall I call you back?’
‘I am trying to make myself clear, you understand . . .’
‘It’s fading again.’
‘It is about permit.’
Duke sat still.
‘Mr Hanson?’
‘Yeah. Still here. The permit.’
‘It is rather difficult to make this into words for you, Mr Hanson. Let me be blunt. I will not shilly-shally. Permission has now been refused. It is a change of circumstances.’
‘Refused? Who the heck’s responsible for this? I must speak to your Minister.’
‘Please, Mr Hanson. As I said, the Minister is not in office.’
‘When’s he coming back? There’s been some God-awful misunderstanding. Pardon my language.’
‘I can understand your distress. Please, it is not my business.’
‘Yeah, of course. Pardon me.’
The man could say no more. Duke tried a few more times to get him to give some reason but with no success. He put down the phone.
He did not move for some time. Down in the street a woman laughed, shrilly. The clock ticked on. At one o’clock there was a rattle as the shops rolled down their bars and closed for lunch.
He did not know what to do if he moved. He did not want to think too hard either. Two days ago his life had stopped – the reason he breathed each breath had stopped. But at least his work had gone on.
Her uncle loved her, of course. I’m his favourite niece. I say the things he doesn’t dare say himself. He calls me his Fire-cracker. He’d do anything for me.
Anything. Even, it appeared, this.
He would say this for her. She had sure taken her revenge in style.
28
Mohammed has put the room into rightful order. He has tidied settee, he has plumped the cushions, Memsahib Smythe having told him the method of this, and he has placed them in the correct positions, two on settee, two on chairs. He has opened doors and aired lounge. Smythe-sahibs, they were giving many parties, they had high spirits in plenty. In the morning there would be sometimes a sleeping English sahib lying on this settee after making whoopie. This is foreigner’s way. It is to his liking too. He himself is getting large tip, and he is bringing also his cousin and his sister’s husband to join their work to his, they also receiving baksheesh. In addition there is plenty of booze, many glasses not empty, it being his duty to dispose of them in suitable manner.
With Manley-sahibs it is different matter. They are having no big parties in the buffet style. When they are holding small dinner, memsahib she is purchasing food and filling kitchen with soiled pans. Next day it is she who is going to Bottle Bazaar, this dirty place is to her liking. She returns with money for himself but this is not so large a sum as he himself purloins, bottlewallahs giving her small price as she is ignorant foreigner.
Mohammed is emptying wastepaper baskets. And Memsahib Manley, she is not buying the imported tins of good quality; she is purchasing bazaar goods like low-class Pakistani. There are no pleasant surprises in the throw-aways. In his quarters he has many tins and jars that he has put to good use but these are in the main mementoes of Memsahib Smythe’s residence.
He is throwing rubbish into the box. There is ball of paper. He picks it up and then sees picture printed upon it. Sahib and memsahib are not at home; he smooths newspaper piece on floor. It is Memsahib Manley with the happy smile.
He cuts around picture with the scissors. When work is finished he takes it to his quarters. Reena asks what her husband is holding in his hand. She too recognizes the features of memsahib. She too is proud that her memsahib is featured in national newspaper. Memsahib Manley has new importance; Mohammed’s heart is swelling.
Around wall is one shelf holding the beloved possessions. There is kangaroo Memsahib Smythe has given to baby. There is Marmite-jar in which his wife is keeping the marriage tikka, gold throughout. There is ballpoint pen Manley-sahib has thrown out, still in working order. There is picture of the Qaid-i-Azam and Mr Bhutto, and snapshots of Smythe family in green compound of bungalow in Wimbledon, Britain. Beside them he is placing picture of memsahib with the happy smile.
He cannot read the English words. He does not know the reason for the smile of confidence. Nor can he read the remainder of the scrumpled newspaper, also unread by the other occupants of the bungalow this morning, Manley-sahib and American sahib.
Minister Replaced. Government spokesman said that senior minister has been replaced, in internal re-shuffle, with effect from today. Police last night arrested five men under Section 26 of West Pakistan Maintenance of Public Order Ordinance. A senior government official denied rumours of more riots in Nazimabad and said: ‘These are routine actions necessary to the continuing peace and prosperity of our country. There is no foundation in rumours put about by scandal-mongers and traitors to our national progress.’
29
People had seen the photograph, of course, though her Pakistani acquaintances were both too polite and no doubt too shocked to mention it. Donald saw its second appearance in the newspaper the next day. He seemed to find it incomprehensibly funny; this was startling, but a relief.
‘The Cameron manager’s wife,’ he said with a wild laugh. Who was he laughing at, Christine or himself? His responses nowadays were taking her by surprise. He seemed to have changed, but like most changes it had not come when expected – at their removal to this country, or at some notable crisis – but had crept up recently. He seemed both harder and more tender. Stiffer in company, he was more intense and wayward when they were alone, as if the public nature of life here built
up pressures that had to be released.
‘At least you went and did something,’ he said, ‘instead of moaning. Seems we’ve all been off on our voyages of discovery.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you, but wait until my suit’s finished.’
‘The one you’re having made? What on earth’s that got to do with it?’
But he just rubbed his moustache. Then he put up his feet and flung back his head, his eyes closed, frowning as if his very spirit clenched. You come out East, she thought, and the most mysterious person is the one who has been beside you all the time.
A cheque arrived, with a compliments slip, from the Superad Agency. Perhaps she had misunderstood about the photo; perhaps they were not meant to be test shots. On the other hand, maybe she had been exploited. She could not phone Sultan to hear his reactions. Besides, who had exploited whom in all this?
In town later that day she met Shamime. At first it surprised her, seeing Shamime at a pan stall. But the man was reaching under his box to produce a Vogue.
‘He gets it from the airline crews,’ said Shamime, in answer to her question. ‘Twenty rupees, what a con. Talking of which, cover girl, you’re in Herald too. Saw it at the hairdresser’s.’
‘Oh no.’
‘I thought: and here’s the girl who said she didn’t need protection.’
‘What?’
‘Tahira, for feminine protection.’ She smiled. ‘When we first met, you were saying you didn’t want to be safe here, like the others.’
‘Oh I see.’ Christine smiled reluctantly. After a moment she said: ‘I keep wondering why they used me for that. I suppose for silly prestige.’
‘They used you because, dum-dum, no Muslim girl would let herself be seen dead in a photo for that. Her family would never speak to her again. She’d die of shame.’
Christine paused. So she was not at the top of the heap, she was at the bottom.
She looked at Shamime. She had not realized how brittle and unkind she was. But then it might be grief. After all, sadness seldom improves people. Instead of languishing pitifully they become harder and more irritable – less able to be helped, rather than more so.
‘I’m awfully sorry, by the way,’ she said. ‘I only heard yesterday. You’re very fond of him, I know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Shamime’s sharp voice.
‘Well, I mean you always said you were. You said that he was the only man who made you laugh, and all the young men seemed so weedy.’
‘When did I say this?’
‘Goodness. Sorry, I can’t remember. I suppose we asked you – we were interested, him being a minister and all.’
‘Oh. Bobby.’
There was a silence. Christine said: ‘He’s not in prison is he?’
‘Heavens no. They wouldn’t dare. He’s all right; he’s writing a book. He’ll wait his time. Things are going to change.’
Everyone was saying this. But they usually added: not for a year or two, not until the opposition gets organized. Probably it would happen when Donald and herself had gone back to England. She would have missed the action again.
‘I’m sorry for Duke, too,’ she said.
‘Why?’ That sharp voice. The diamond winked as she turned to Christine.
‘His hotel. He’s put up a fight, Donald says, but it’s no good. Apparently at the beginning he thought your uncle had changed his mind. He rang up Donald in quite a state. But Donald had just heard the radio news, so he told him.’
She paused.
‘Go on,’ said Shamime.
‘Well, that’s it. At least Duke knows it’s not your uncle’s fault. Not that it does him much good. He’s paying off the contractors. In a couple of weeks he’s going back to the States.’
‘To his wife.’ Shamime turned and hailed a taxi. ‘For better or worse.’
It was a dented taxi, plastered with stickers. ‘Till death do us part,’ she said, climbing in. She did not offer Christine a lift.
The back window was decorated with red lights. As it pulled away from the kerb they chased round and round, as if demented.
30
‘I’m really a thirty-six waist?’ asked Donald. ‘I didn’t like to believe it last time. I used to be thirty-four.’
‘Move a little forward please,’ said Mr Beg. ‘I have three branches in Karachi and two branches more in planning stage.’ He wagged his finger, smiling. ‘You think I am doing this by making the incorrect measurements?’
‘I know. I just don’t like it in black and white, that I’m putting on weight.’ They were becoming quite chatty this second visit. ‘I suppose it’s having everything done for me here. You know, in Karachi.’
He looked at Mr Beg, who filled the fitting-room. Neither of his grandparents had been fat. But then Mr Beg had other people to do things for him too.
‘Now the trousers.’ Mr Beg turned to the tailor. ‘Lao. Please take your own off, Mr Manley.’
Under the strip light of the fitting-room Mr Beg had a certain pallor, as if in ill-health. Otherwise his features, sunk in fat, bore no resemblance to anyone Donald had known. His eyes were brown, his lips thick. It was obviously an honour to have the proprietor in attendance like this. Wedged behind Mr Beg stood the tailor himself, an emaciated old man hung with measuring tapes and a pincushion on a string. He held the tacked-together pieces of cloth.
Donald took off his trousers. Mr Beg took the new trousers from the tailor. ‘Feel this cloth, Mr Manley. You have chosen well. When I saw you I said to myself: this Englishman will choose the best. Feel the quality.’
Donald, standing in his underpants, did as he was told. A fawn lightweight weave, it was the costliest in the shop. After all he had arrived with a full wallet. No doubt people like Mr Beg could tell. That was how they expanded to three branches and two more in planning stage.
‘Now, please.’
Donald lifted a leg. ‘Sorry.’ He hopped, once, and steadied himself on Mr Beg’s shoulder. It was soft as a sofa, upholstered in the nylon shirt.
Mr Beg helped him pull on the trousers. The tailor knelt at Donald’s feet and started to pin up the bottom seam. Mr Beg gave him instructions in Urdu. Donald stood as still as a dummy. Mr Beg was perspiring; so was he.
Mr Beg bent, with difficulty, and straightened the fall of the trousers. He pinched in the cloth at Donald’s thigh.
‘Just half an inch, Mr Manley, here.’ His fingers held the cloth against Donald’s skin. ‘I will pin it myself.’
He pinned one thigh and then the other. ‘Now please bend your legs. Comfortable?’
Donald flexed his legs, feeling foolish. Even if he had not become fatter, this place made him feel so.
‘Fine.’ He paused. ‘Have you always been a tailor?’
He nodded. ‘I have worked my way up from the bottom,’ he pointed to Donald’s feet, ‘to the top. Next year, insh ’allah, I will also be leasing made-to-measure shop in new Hilton Hotel, soon to be completed. All the businessmen are arriving to Karachi, our country develops its prosperity. And the Arabs are arriving from the Gulf. Myself, I prefer the English customers like yourself.’
‘Were your family tailors?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. Mr Manley, I am poor orphan.’
‘I’m awfully sorry to hear it.’ Donald waited but Mr Beg did not continue. ‘Your English is very good.’
‘You are kind. I take correspondence course. At the night-time, while the city is snoring, my own light is shining. I determine to make my way.’
And you have succeeded, thought Donald. You must have far more money than I will ever earn. Mr Beg spoke like Christine’s descriptions of her real-estate friend Mr Rahim. He wanted to ask Mr Beg so many questions but he did not dare in case he became suspicious. Close up, in the flesh, it was impossible to believe that this man was his half-uncle. Perhaps he did not want to believe it. There was simply no connection; nothing familiar to which he could attach himself.
‘You are
always dressing on left-hand side?’
Donald’s face heated up. He nodded.
‘Excuse me please.’ Mr Beg pinched the crotch of the trousers. ‘One centimetre,’ he murmured.
Donald stood still as he inserted the pin. He was seized by the same panic he had felt in that hut in Clifton. He was a sacrifice; the man was going to puncture him with pins, in retribution.
The panic passed. Mr Beg was behaving perfectly normally. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘please take them off now. Take care please, with the pins.’
The tailor came forward and eased down the trousers. Donald stood revealed again in his underpants, his shirt flap hanging down. His legs looked bald with the black shoes at the bottom of them. He felt more nude than if he had been undressed. Soft and bald and silly and English.
‘Man to man,’ Mr Beg lowered his voice. ‘I also was making very good marriage. My wife, she was rich widow-lady. She liked my get-up-and-go. Also my pale and distinguished complexion.’
‘I see.’ At least Mr Beg had been given one advantage. Mr Beg winked.
‘And you have children?’ Donald asked casually.
He shook his head. ‘I have no little ones, to care for me when I have grown old and feeble.’
Donald started putting on his trousers. Perhaps, like fat, this too ran in the family. Their family.
His legs and crotch were tacky. He was drenched with sweat, despite the air-conditioning at TipTop Tailoring. If this man was simply his tailor he would have rather liked him. In fact, he had the feeling that next visit Mr Beg would appear more ordinary than this time, a large affable stranger: either an obsequious master or a bossy servant, Donald was not sure which. After which no doubt he and Mr Beg would part for good, their transaction completed.
Today he had parked on the other side of the road, next to a tall stucco wall. A school must lie behind; he heard high Pakistani voices singing.’
‘The farmer wants a wife,
The farmer wants a wife,
Ee-aye, ee-aye, the farmer wants a wife . . .’
Hot Water Man Page 23
