The Wind Cannot Read

by Richard Mason

  “I don’t have to—I’m not in love. I’ve never been in love, so you said.”

  “I was wrong. Of course you’ve been in love. It’s in every line of your book.”

  “I got stung a bit in France. But not enough to cry.”

  “I’m almost crying now,” I said. “Let’s say good-bye.”

  “All right. Good-bye.”

  “I’m coming back. I’ll get myself sent out again when my sick leave’s over.”

  “I’ll have finished all the dangerous jobs for you then. You’ll come back just in time for a rest in the monsoon.”

  “You won’t know when I’m crying in the monsoon,” I said.

  It was seven o’clock in the morning. We took off from the airfield and made a circuit over Imphal, and then headed off westward. The whole of the Manipur plain lay below us, flat as a lake and encircled by hills. We looked down and knew that the Japanese were below us now, not a dozen miles from Imphal. What colossal impudence they had, butting their way into India like this! We’d broken all their bridges in Burma, and shot up their stores and their men and their aircraft, and we’d even put a couple of landing-strips for our­ selves right down in their midst; and yet still they’d pushed their way through these impossible hills and surrounded our base, and there was no hope of getting them out altogether before the rains began. We’d do it eventually, of course; no one had any doubts about that. We would extricate them from these mountain ranges and ravines, and drive them out of Burma. But how long was it going to take? Already we’d been four and a half years at war; could we suppose it would take less than the same time again? There was a time when I used to think of the war as something to get out of the way so that we could go on with life—as though the war would take a period out of life without being life itself. Instead these war years had brought the profoundest experience of all, and had moulded me more than my years at school. Now it had become difficult to imagine the world at peace—newspapers that were not full of front-line communiqués and friends who were not soldiers. It was difficult to think of oneself as a civilian; as someone who caught buses and tubes, and wore flannels, and went boating on the Avon, and had a bed with an eiderdown and a set of favourite books on the polished oak table. . . . Yet if ever I went back to this life again, wouldn’t it be equally difficult to think of myself as I was now, and to recapture the atmosphere of a scene like this? And as though to impress it upon my own mind and make it easier to recall in the future, I looked round at the wounded men on the stretchers, and out of the window to the jungle-covered hills moving away below; and I thought of the heavy plaster cast on my arm and of the apprehension within myself that was heavier still. And I knew that however dim this became in the future there was no escape from it now; that life had to be taken moment by moment, and you could neither hold up time to preserve your happiness nor hasten it to take away your sorrow. Peter had said, “If you want to cry . . .” If I had to cry I would do so, and that would be part of my life.

  At ten o’clock we landed at Calcutta. Two ambulances from the hospital came alongside the aircraft on the tarmac, and orderlies carried out the stretchers.

  An orderly said to me:

  “Can you manage yourself, sir?”

  ‘Yes,” I said. “Which ambulance?”

  “There’ll be room in the first.”

  I went over to the leading ambulance, and stood around for a few minutes whilst they filled it up with the stretchers.

  “This ambulance?” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I waited until the orderly had gone back into the aircraft, and then I began to walk away. I walked over to the control tower without looking round. I went in, and there was a Squadron-Leader sitting behind a desk.

  “Have you got an aircraft going to Delhi?” I said.

  He looked at my arm all done up in plaster and supported by a sling.

  “Rather,” he said. “There’s always something going.”

  “I’d like to get a lift.”

  “You haven’t booked a passage?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve just come from Imphal.”

  “Well, we’ll fix you up all right,” he said. “You don’t want to travel by train with a groggy arm like that. Hang on.”

  I looked out of the window and saw the first ambulance starting off. It came over the tarmac and passed behind the control-room, and a minute later the second followed it away. Nobody seemed to have noticed I was missing. My medical papers had been taken with the others, but it would be some time before they found out what had happened. By that time I should be in Delhi with Sabby. I didn’t mind what happened so long as I found Sabby.

  “There’s a kite going in an hour,” the Squadron-Leader said.

  “I can get on it?”

  “We’ll squeeze you in.”

  I found a canteen and bought myself a lemonade and a packet of cigarettes. The air in Calcutta was terribly sultry. Inside the plaster my arm felt swollen with the heat, and my hand was burning where it stuck out at the end. I poured some cold water over it, but when it had dried it seemed hotter still. I sat down under a fan. Soon I became restive, and I went outside again, my battle-dress jacket soaking up perspiration. It was a badly fitting jacket that I had been given in the hospital at Imphal, and my olive-green trousers were very large and baggy.

  When I went back to the control-room the Squadron-Leader said the aircraft had been delayed half an hour.

  “What time will it get to Delhi?” I asked.

  “Six o’clock.’’

  “It won’t be later?”

  “It might be seven. You’re in a hurry?”

  “No,” I said. “I just wondered.”

  I had to wait another three-quarters of an hour, and then I was taken over to an aircraft. I stood back whilst some senior officers got in, until a Brigadier took my left arm and said, “After you, old chap.” I was still nervous that there was not going to be enough room, but when everybody had sat down there was still an empty seat. We got away before midday, and the relief of escaping into the air again was tremendous. It was the last lap, with Sabby at the end of it. We flew over Bengal and Bihar, and then along the River Jumna, and after we had been going some hours somebody shouted in my ear, “If you look out now you’ll see the Taj Mahal.” I peered down and there was the old town of Agra, a cluster of roofs in the dry, broken country. Outside it, on the brown river, the Taj stood like a tiny ivory miniature, only whiter than ivory, gleaming as though it had just been washed. It came as something of a surprise to see it like this—in the sunlight, and from so great a distance. I had thought of it only in the moonlight, and with Sabby and I on the grass at its foot; but now I realised that this way in which I had remembered it was only a moment in its own life, a moment that was gone and forgotten by all but ourselves.

  This miniature beneath us had nothing to do with our memories. It was the famous monument of Shah Jehan, to be pointed out by one traveller to another as they swept over it at two hundred miles an hour. And as such I did not care for it; so I sat down again, and waited for the last hour to drag itself to a conclusion.

  Chapter Seven

  (1)

  We reached the Willingdon airport soon after six. I went straight out on to the road and found a tonga, and gave the driver the name of Sabby’s hotel. It was a long way, first through the avenues of the new town and then the bazaars of the old. The hot air streamed on to my face, drying my lips and my throat. There were heavy smells in the bazaars and the flies were swarming thickly everywhere. The bells of the horse jingled all the time. I was jolted about, perspiring and dirty, and longing to get to the hotel. The journey seemed to go on for ever. Pedestrians and cyclists got in the way of the horse so that we were constantly brought to a standstill. We went slowly. My arm was paining me badly and was chafing against the plaster. I would have torn the plaster off, only I
had nothing to do it with. I began to pray: “Please may I find Sabby at the hotel. I will give anything for that. Please, please let Sabby be there.”

  When we arrived at last, I remembered I had no money to pay the tonga man. Peter had given me a rupee in Imphal, all he had on him, but I had spent that on cigarettes in Calcutta. I told the man to wait and went into the hotel. I went straight up to Sabby’s room. I knocked and listened: my heart was banging inside me after the speed I had taken the stairs, and it was the only sound. I stood breathing through my dry throat. After a while I tried the handle. It turned, but the door was locked.

  I went downstairs again and walked through the dining-room and the lounge. Everybody looked at me with curiosity; I suppose it was because of the lump of dirty plaster and my dishevelled appearance. I looked at them, and through them, because Sabby was not there. She was not outside on the terrace. I went to the clerk at the reception-desk.

  “Miss Wei?” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, obsequiously tilting his head on one side.

  “Well,” I said, “is she here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Kindly wait, sir. I will see for you.” He began to search in a register.

  “I know her room number,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes, sir. I will tell you.” He went on pushing his finger down the page.

  “Miss Wei is in Room No. 37.”

  “I know that—but where is she now?”

  “You may try the room on the first floor. It is No. 37.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “But she isn’t there now. Did you see her go out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t quite follow you, sir.”

  “Miss Wei,” I said. “Did you see her go out today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “She has Room No. 37.”

  “For heaven’s sake get the manageress,” I shouted at him.

  He climbed off his stool and came out of the office into the hall. He spoke to a bearer as though he were describing a murder that had just taken place, with fussy speed. The bearer also began to rattle away, and they stood there holding a long conversation. I interrupted.

  “The manageress,” I said. “Memsahib. Fetch her, will you?”

  “Atcha, Sahib,” the bearer said and disappeared.

  I waited in the colonnaded porch. It was dusk, and the air was terribly heavy and oppressive. I never liked Delhi. I always thought it was soulless, and I always came to it with a kind of dread. It was in the middle of the dry, ugly plains, and it was hardly more hospitable than the plains themselves. Now a deep hate for it began to rise in me. I wanted to find Sabby and take her away to some place where the sky gave sun and rain generously, where there were trees and flowers in profusion. Whatever happened, I must take her away. Sabby was a sweet blossom that in Delhi could only shrivel and die.

  The bearer came back, and began to gabble to the clerk.

  “Well?” I said.

  “The manageress is out,” the clerk said.

  “Where’s the telephone?”

  “Here, sir. You may use this phone.’’

  I looked through the directory and found the number for her broadcasting station in New Delhi. I dialled the number. A ringing tone sounded for a long time, and then an apathetic voice said “Hullo.”

  “Is that the broadcasting station?” I said.

  “Is it what?”

  “The broadcasting station. The wireless station.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I rang off and dialled again, and got the same voice, a little more piqued. I slammed the receiver down without answering and went back into the lounge. There was a Colonel there whom I had seen when I had visited Sabby before. He was reading an old copy of the Illustrated London News.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where I can find a friend of mine who lives here—Miss Wei.”

  He looked at me over the top of his spectacles. “Who are you?” he said.

  I thought, ‘What the hell’s that got to do with it?’ but I said politely:

  “My name’s Quinn. I’ve just got back from a forward area.”

  “I can see that.’’

  “I’m looking for this friend of mine—a Chinese.”

  “I’ve seen a Chinese girl here, but I don’t know her.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “I can’t remember when I’ve seen her. You’d better ask Mrs. Betterton. I believe she’s an acquaintance.” He indicated an elderly lady across the room, and looked down into his magazine again.

  I went over to the lady and began to question her.

  “Please can you tell me,” I said, “have you seen Miss Wei lately?”

  “Miss Wei? Why, yes, of course . . . she’s been in hospital, you know.”

  “In hospital?”

  “She’s been there for some time.”

  “What’s the matter with her? Do you know anything, please . . .?”

  “I understand it was an operation—on her head, I’m afraid. I’ve heard nothing else.”

  “What hospital is it?” I said.

  “The King George Hospital. I’m afraid you’re very worried. If I may do anything at all . . .”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll go to the hospital at once.”

  I got into the tonga outside. The driver was resting with his legs up over the side. He clambered down painfully and fiddled about trying to light his oil lamps. It seemed minutes before we started, and I was quivering with impatience. I said “Quickly!” and he whipped the horse into life. I didn’t care about the horse then, so long as we went quickly. We had to go through the old city again.

  The bazaars were brightly lit, and there was a lot of shouting and a metallic voice coming from a street loudspeaker. We passed a tonga with two officers and a girl, looking very gay and a little drunk. One of them shouted out to me some passing remark. I couldn’t bring myself to reply or smile, but I went on staring at them. They thought that was funnier still and produced another taunt. Then they forgot all about me and their tonga fell behind. We passed out of the gates of the old city into the open avenues of the new, back towards the airport. At last we turned into the drive of the hospital.

  I jumped off the tonga and ran in. It was a beautiful new building, cool and clean inside after the dusty heat of the outside air. The corridors were like the polished marble of the Taj. An Indian at the desk in the entrance hall stood up.

  “You wish treatment?” he said.

  “No, I’d like to see Miss Wei.”

  “Miss Wei,” he said. “Very good. Will you please wait in this room.”

  “Please take me to her straight away,” I said.

  “I am sorry, you will have to wait. It is always necessary to wait.”

  I stood in the bare room. There was a table, and plain chairs, but the room looked empty, with its high, bare walls and stone floor. A fan purred on the ceiling. I stood underneath it, and my forehead was cold as the perspiration dried away. I took out a cigarette, and went to a corner of the room out of the draught to light it. The smoke was rough on my dry tongue and throat, so I dropped it on the floor, a long, white cigarette, and trod on the end. I sat down and looked at it on the wide expanse of clean floor. I knew I ought not to have put it there. It was a dirty thing to do, to stamp out a cigarette on the floor of a spotlessly clean hospital. I ought to remove it. If anyone saw it they would think I had no respect for their beautiful polished floor. In hospitals it was necessary to have floors like that, and it was hard enough to keep them clean without people dropping their cigarette ends everywhere. I would really have to remove it—if only I could make myself get up from the chair. B
ut this dead-weight inside me would take some shifting. . . .

  “You wish to see Miss Wei?”

  There was a Sister in the doorway in white starched uniform.

  “Yes,” I said. “Miss Wei.” I got up with sudden energy.

  “You’re an old friend?” she said, right in the doorway.

  “A close friend,” I said.

  “I shall have to tell her. I can’t let you go straight in.”

  “Why not?”

  “It might be too much of an excitement. I’ll go and tell her, and after a little while . . .”

  “She’s all right, isn’t she?” I said.

  “She’s had a bad time. It was a dangerous operation.”

  “But now?”

  “Now we’re waiting to see. We’ve been waiting ten days.”

  “Please go and tell her,” I said. “Tell her it’s Michael.”

  “Oh yes, Michael Quinn,” the Sister said. “She’s spoken about you.”

  “Please tell her. I might be able to help her. I’m sure it would help if I could see her.”

  She went away, closing the door softly. I looked at the door, and then I looked down and caught sight of the cigarette again and it already seemed hours since I had dropped it there. I picked it up and looked around for somewhere to put it. There was no ashtray in the room, and there was no window. I was about to push it through the grid of a ventilator, and then I thought better of it and stood in the centre of the room with the thing in my fingers, trying to make up my mind what to do. I could feel the wind of the fan playing loosely with my hair. I felt in my pocket to see if there was a matchbox in which I could stuff the cigarette; but whilst I was doing so I suddenly realised I didn’t care a damn what happened to the polished floor, and I threw the end down and screwed my foot round on top of it as though I was grinding it into the earth. It served the floor right for looking so infuriatingly immaculate and smug. I hated the whole room, which was as unfriendly and disheartening as any room could be. I was just on the point of going out and waiting in the corridor when the Sister came in again.