The Wind Cannot Read

by Richard Mason

  “But it’s that kind of person who gets on,” said Mario. “You wait and see. When we’re still Flying-Officers he’ll be a Group­Captain, and there will be nothing we can do about it. He’ll be a Group-Captain because he’s good at his job. And there’ll be no weapons with which we can fight him, because we shan’t be a quarter so good.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for the old days,” Peter said, “when you couldn’t be an officer without five hundred a year and a father in the Guards. I suggest a motion deploring the passing of the Old Days and recommending the foundation of a club for survivors. The President will be the Colonel whom I met in the Cricket Club.”

  “Tell us about the Colonel.”

  “He said, ‘I want you to ask yourself three things. Firstly, do the right-thinking Indians want the British to leave India? Secondly, is it to their advantage that the British should leave? And thirdly, do the British want to go, and if not, why the hell should they?’ He had a real God-given conviction that we were a superior nation carrying out a divine mission in India. He was absolutely sincere and kind, and at least seventy-two. He also had a twinkle in his eye and talked about the stage-door at the Gaiety. He hadn’t lost his eye for a shapely ankle, either. He said to me, ‘I know I am an old diehard, or Blimp, or whatever you call old fogies like myself nowadays. . . .’ There should be a monument to the diehard and the Blimp. I should like to preserve him for ever and ever—put him in Madame Tussaud’s or somewhere so that all the nasty little children of the future, all the precocious little Fenwick children, can be taken there to see him.”

  “I don’t believe Fenwick will have any children,” Mervyn said. “He’s a slug.”

  “But I must tell you about my uncle,” Peter went on. “You’d never believe about my uncle—he’s altogether too good to be true. He’s a squire. We never call him Uncle. He is always ‘The Squire.’ We’re all very fond of the Squire. The only thing he can really do well is ride a horse—you’ve never seen anything so wonderful as the Squire on horseback, doing the rounds of his estate. Of course the estate is losing a very steady six hundred a year; but that is one of the burdens it’s his duty to bear—it would be a break with tradition if he were to make it pay. He was at Cambridge about fifty years ago, when only tradesmen’s sons took degrees. Naturally he did not take a degree but that didn’t prevent him from becoming a J.P. of Worcestershire—he was cut out absolutely for the job. Now he is not a J.P., but there is still a morning ceremony called ‘attending to business.’ ‘Attending to business’ takes place at half-past ten, when the Squire retires to his study. He sits down at his desk, and clears his throat very fruitily, and strokes his moustache, which is a symptom of the profoundest thought. Then he turns over the pages of The Times one by one. When he reaches the end, he turns the whole paper over and starts at the beginning again in case he has missed an item of importance. If you interrupt him in the middle of this he scowls over the top of his reading glasses and says, ‘Couldn’t the matter wait, dear boy? I’m attending to business.’ At half-past eleven, with business attended to, he can get into the saddle with a clear conscience and inspect the clumps of elm-trees that he’s been trying to decide whether or not to cut down for eleven years.

  “After dinner there’s always port and cigars. Once I was brazen enough to ask him to give me a bottle of champagne: I waited until he was in a good humour, but it came as a terrible shock to him. I had to repeat the request several times before he could believe his ears. Then he said, ‘Hum, hum, hum,’ and made the ferocious noise in his throat and twirled the ends of his moustache. ‘I’m afraid we’ve drunk the last bottle, dear boy,’ he said at last. But I’d already inspected the wine cellar. I told him so. It was clear he was very disappointed in me, and there was a long interval while he put on his reading glasses so that he could scowl at me over the top, and took them off again, and made some more fruity noises—long noises in his throat, working up to a crescendo and then starting lower down again like a car changing gear. War or peace for a nation might have been in the balance. Finally he said with enormous solemnity, ‘I shall think it over, dear boy. I shall consider it,’ and that afternoon he had an unexpected session of ‘attending to business.’ But I’m afraid that before I return to England the Squire will have been gathered, and the country won’t be the same. Meanwhile I shall appoint him Hon. Secretary to the Survivors of the Old Days’ Club. He will fill the rôle to perfection.”

  “You should be happy in India,” Mervyn said. “This is the last stronghold. Look at all the stuffed shirts in this room.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t a stronghold at all. The bastions are crumbling. There’s too much sedition and go-getting, and the war has caused an influx of young whipper-snappers—just like ourselves. No principles. Look at Michael here, with his queer ideas that Indians are people you can ask to dinner. And now he’s in love with a Japanese.”

  “You’re drunk,” I said.

  “No, I can see it in your face. You’ve gone crazy about the new teacher.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the kind. I think she’s very beautiful, but she probably has a lover already. Whenever I meet a beautiful woman she’s always passionately attached to somebody else.”

  “Yes,” Mario said. “I should say you’re right about that.”

  “What do you know about it?” I asked, because it sounded a strange thing for Mario to say.

  “She’s sitting behind you,” he said. “So is the third corner of the triangle.”

  I turned round. Two or three tables away I could see Miss Wei. Her back was half turned towards me. Sitting opposite her was a man with horn-rimmed spectacles. He had a broad forehead, an aquiline nose, and thin, pale lips.

  “There,” I said. “I hope that convinces you. I’m not chasing after the Japanese lady.”

  Chapter Seven

  (1)

  On the following Saturday afternoon I went to the races with Peter and Mario. We left Mervyn lying on his bed in one of his purplest depressions. When he was like that it was useless trying to humour him; you might as well have tried to coax someone out of a drunken stupor. We had begun to suspect that he was cultivating his moods, seizing hold of any little irregularity in his state of mind and magnifying it, driving himself mad. When you are mad, you get sent back to England.

  It was Mario who was enthusiastic about the races; he said his soul was going dead in him and he wanted movement and colour, and he wanted to see beautiful women in smart clothes, women who would remind him of European capitals. Peter was going because he wanted to make some money. He had a system. One ought to have a system, he said; in fact, from now on he was going to start systems for everything. He had only just discovered the value of them—he was using a system of mnemonics for learning Japanese words. He was going to organise his whole life on a number of systems, and then eventually he would be bound to get somewhere.

  I was going to the races because I had no system for anything and could think of nothing better to do. At least, I could think of better things: I would really have preferred to read a book at the Cricket Club or work on some Japanese, but I knew that on Saturday afternoon I should find it impossible to sit still and concentrate. It wasn’t only that way with me on Saturday afternoon, either. The peace I had known in Simla was gone, and a kind of restlessness was besetting me. I didn’t know what I wanted to do nor why I was restless. I went to the races because it meant moving about, and it would pass the afternoon.

  Although the temperature was over ninety degrees, the racecourse was crowded. There were dozens of limousines lining the road and the grandstand was full of Maharajahs. The Brigadier had lent us badges that admitted us to the paddock.

  “Isn’t it simply marvellous,” Mario said. “I love to be amongst the best people!”

  “It’s excellent,” Peter said. “You see, the Indians have best people too. I’d got it all wrong. I thought all Indians were babus an
d sweepers.”

  There was plenty of colour for Mario. All the Indian women were wearing their silk saris, very soft and colourful, and wholly feminine; the English women moved amongst them like a different sex, half-way to masculinity. These Indians seemed to glide as they moved, and the diaphanous material, exquisitely bordered in silver or gold, floated behind them; they stood in twos and threes like bunches of soft-petalled flowers. Mario was smiling his white Latin smile with aesthetic delight.

  “I am losing money every minute you stand there entranced,” Peter said. “I must go and study the field at once.”

  We left Mario in the crowd, and went off and looked at the horses. Then we went over to the bookmakers and placed bets on the first race. The minimum bet was thirty rupees. Thirty rupees for us was two days’ pay.

  “That’ll make your system very expensive,” I said.

  “I shall use it all the same. The whole point about a system is that it must be rigid. Then if I lose my money I can lay all the blame on it. If you have any sense, you’ll start one too.”

  “I just back the agreeable names and colours.”

  “You’re not nearly cynical enough,” Peter said. “You don’t understand life. The nasty names and the loud, clashing colours always come in first.”

  We took our cards, and went back across the paddock to the grandstand. It was no use trying to find Mario again in the crowd, so we found seats and smoked a cigarette waiting for the first race to begin. People began to flow through on to the grass in front of the stand, thronging the fence that lined the track. All the voices merged into a road that rose and fell like the sound of the sea. It was cooler in the grandstand, but I was still perspiring. I was beginning to enjoy myself, catching the expectant mood in the air. I had only got ninety rupees, enough for three races, and I thought if I won some money I could find plenty of things to spend it on. If I won, I thought, I should ask Miss Wei out to dinner. I told Peter.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You could take her out, anyway. It isn’t a question of money.”

  “It will make the race more exciting.”

  “That’s like the stupid game of avoiding the joins on a pavement—‘If I step on a line I shall fail my exam.’ You’re hopeless. You’re not my type. I don’t know why I have you as a friend.”

  “I’m part of one of your systems.”

  “At any rate, it proves we were right about you in the Yacht Club. About you and Miss Wei.”

  “You weren’t,” I said.

  “If you put your women on a horse . . .” he said.

  “It was just a whim.”

  “Let’s see if your horse wins.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. And it didn’t win. Except for one horse a furlong behind, it was last in the field from the start. I saw the salmon pink and the sky blue, the Jockey colours that I had chosen, hanging there at the back of the bunch, and the jockey never seemed to be trying. Peter’s horse came in fifth.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “In my system it’s no use winning on the first bet—you don’t get enough, and you have to start at the beginning again.”

  “I’ve lost Miss Wei,” I said. “But I’ll probably have to take you out to dinner instead if you lose all afternoon.”

  “I’ll manage. You’d better put your woman on the next race again.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s all over.”

  We went down to the bookies again, and made some new bets. I stuck to salmon pink and sky blue, and Peter had a horse called ‘Tintinnabulation.’ We watched the race from the rails. I saw mine as they came by, well back, but Peter never saw his at all. We couldn’t see who won, and Peter was on tenterhooks until the numbers went up, and neither of ours was amongst them. I put my last thirty chips on something called ‘The Colonel’s Daughter,’ and Peter put ninety on the same horse. It came in third, but we had both backed it to win. After that I fell out, because I had no more money left in my wallet. Peter offered to lend me some, but I had purposely only come with ninety chips, and I told him to use it up on his system. On the fifth race he laid a hundred and fifty rupees, and his horse galloped home at ten to one. He almost went mad queueing up at the bookmaker’s to collect his hundred-odd pounds, afraid that the money would run out. After that he put thirty on the last race, and I took thirty from him, and we both lost.

  We waited at the paddock gate until we saw Mario coming out with the crowd. He looked so pleased with himself that we thought he must have had as great a success as Peter. But he asked about us before he told us anything.

  “My system was wonderful,” Peter said.

  “Next time it will let you down,’’ said Mario.

  “It’ll do nothing of the kind. The genius of my system is that you never use the same system twice running at the races. Nobody has ever thought of that before. Now what have you won?”

  “More than you.”

  “I don’t believe it. You didn’t have enough capital.”

  “You’ve lost your soul,’’ Mario said. “And I’ve gained the world.”

  “I hate people who talk in riddles.”

  “I’ve gained heaven, too.”

  He was trying to suppress his smiles, but all his face was smiling, and his eyes were very bright and happy. He looked extraordinarily handsome—handsome in a dark, suave way, without being wooden. We let him keep his secret until we had got into the taxi and then we pressed him, and he said with diffidence and as though he was a little surprised:

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve met the most wonderful girl.”

  “Oh, hell,” Peter said, “I should never have let you out of my sight.”

  “I never quite expected to find anything like that out here.”

  “I suppose you’ve fallen for one of those tantalising saris. What a shock you’ll get—those garments can turn mountains into mole­hills.”

  “It’s an English girl,’’ Mario said.

  “One of the best people?”

  “Certainly—she was with her parents.”

  “One of the very best, obviously.”

  “I just looked at her and thought she was wonderful. I went on looking at her, and she looked at me, quite frankly, and I knew all about her at once. I went straight up to her, and began to talk to her as though I’d known her all my life. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it before. It makes one believe in all kinds of new things. Divinities that shape your ends, and all that. And she has an exceptional name, too. It’s Dorcas.”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “That’s a good name. I can imagine those frank looks.”

  “I spent all the afternoon making bets for her. We lost every one.”

  “Not that it mattered in the least!”

  “Once we forgot to watch the race, because we were so busy talking.”

  “And the parents?”

  “They thought from the way we were talking that we must be old friends. The father is a Maior-General. A little gouty.”

  “You’re going to be so happy,” Peter said.

  “Of course, I don’t know what will come of it. It may just be one of those beautiful isolated moments, a happy combination of chemicals in the right atmospheric conditions. Anyway, I’m meeting her for dinner next week.”

  “Not tonight?” Peter said. “Then we’ll have a celebration. We shall celebrate your beautiful moment and the vindication of my system. Only I’m not going to have Mervyn because his blues are infectious.”

  When we got back to the hotel Mervyn had disappeared, anyway. He had left his bed rumpled and his clothes scattered everywhere. We bathed and changed, and then we went out and ate a Chinese meal; we ate shark-fin soup because that was the most expensive thing on the menu and Peter’s wallet was bulging with the notes he had won. Afterwards we went to the cinema; but we were not in the right mood for two hours of sentimentality
, and we made frivolous comments that annoyed the audience round about us. When we got up to go they expressed their relief with purposely audible mutterings.

  Mervyn was not in when we got back. We went to bed, and I lay awake thinking of the races and the film and the shark-fin soup, and occasionally of Miss Wei. It was dark outside, but the fan was shorting and I watched the sparks dancing round the motor above my head. Then I heard Mervyn corning up the stairs, breathing heavily like an animal.

  “What’s the time?” I said, as he passed my door.

  “I don’t know,’’ he said. “You’ve got a watch.”

  He shone his torch on to his wrist. He looked at it for a long time, leaning against the door, snorting all the time. He might have been drunk; but Mervyn did not have to be drunk to get himself into that sort of state.

  “Three o’clock,’’ he said at last.

  “Good night,” I said.

  He did not say ‘Good night,’ but went off clumsily to his own room. I could hear him kicking off his shoes, and then the springs of his bed squeaked as he threw himself heavily on to it without taking off his clothes.

  (2)

  Miss Wei taught us in the afternoons. Once her first shyness had gone her classes became the brightest hour of the day.

  Everybody teased her, and she began to think it was great fun, and all through her hour she was putting up the red-backed register in front of her face to hide her giggles. But we learnt a great deal of Japanese from her. We used to look up odd phrases and words in a traveller’s dictionary and bring them out in conversation, and she would have to hide her face and laugh again at the strange sound of them on our lips. She wanted to know who had taught us these things. Then one afternoon she was absent from the school. The Brigadier came in to announce that she was sick; she would be back soon. We searched the phrase books for all kinds of condolences. But she was not there the next day or the next.

  Once I thought I saw her in the street. I stopped my ghari and jumped out, and chased after the person along the pavement. It wasn’t her. After that in the street I seemed to recognise her over and over again in distant figures. When I found out my mistake, I experienced that same sense of frustration and disappointment as when she did not arrive for her class. The days were long and dreary; there was a gap in them that had not been there before she came to the school. It came as a little shock to find out how much I was missing her.