‘Now we must talk,’ said Dr Gopal, but whatever they had been discussing before she came in, the young men had nothing to say now. They shot her inquisitive glances from beneath their eyelids but whenever she turned to one of them, he was looking the other way. She tried to break their constraint by speaking herself:
‘When I came though the plantations, one of the fields was on fire.’
The boys tittered and Gopal explained that the old canes had to be burnt off before new ones could be planted. One of the boys muttered something in Arabic which led to laughter and a general chatter which Kristy could not understand.
‘English. Only English,’ Gopal commanded and the silence returned. ‘I fear these boys are shy. Why so modest?’ Gopal laughed at them and said to Kristy: ‘I will send my shop-boy to buy coffee and sweetmeats. That will make them find their tongues.’
While Gopal was briefing the boy, Khalil, a thin small youth with bold eyes, looked at Kristy and said: ‘Answer this, if you please: three holes in the floor.’
Kristy shook her head and Khalil answered with satisfaction: ‘Well, well, well.’ The riddle was riotously received and Khalil said: ‘I have many such jokes. I drop them into parties: they keep things going.’
The others, too, had many such jokes and told them, one after the other, until Gopal returned and said: ‘Enough. We must speak seriously.’ He turned to Kristy and said: ‘We are a remarkable gathering, you know. I am an Indian, a Hindu. Nimr here is a Christian, the others Moslem, yet we are all good friends.’
Musa looked up through his eye-lashes and observed Kristy with an expression of challenge and ridicule. He resembled his father but where Yusef Pasha had appeared muted by defeat, the son had about him an aura of vitality and dissatisfaction. He spoke in the sort of richly cultivated voice that in England could be found only among the very old.
‘And,’ he said, ‘we fight for the same thing.’
Kristy was surprised: ‘What is that?’
‘We fight to rule ourselves.’
‘You soon will. It is declared British policy that, as soon as they are ready, you will have self-rule.’
The boy, returning with coffee and Turkish Delight, deferentially offered the tray to Musa who, with a casual, rather sulky movement, waved him away. Gopal spoke and the tray was brought to Kristy, the boy grinning insolently in the belief that she could be there for only one purpose. All the Moslem boys refused the hospitality offered and when Gopal protested, Khalil explained that it was Ramadan, the month when the daylight hours must be spent fasting. Gopal, looking disconcerted, said he had forgotten. Musa, impatient for this interruption to end, sat up and broke in as soon as he could.
‘You think it is British policy that the Arabs should have self-rule?’ He gave a laugh of derisive anger and threw himself back on his divan.
‘Surely you know, Mrs Foster,’ said Gopal, ‘the British want power for the Africans? They say: “The Arabs are dead, the Africans not yet born.” The British, who put down slavery, see the Africans as their children and so they have a pro-African policy.’
Musa, pulling a row of amber beads agitatedly this way and that between his fingers, asked: ‘Why should the British make policy here? Why should they be here at all?’
The other boys hissed slightly at this discourtesy towards an English guest and Kristy laughed.
‘I see no reason why they should be here. And no reason why the Arabs should be here, either.’
‘We are here by right of conquest,’ Musa said.
‘I don’t recognize that right.’
Musa, his head down, gave her a sidelong glance: ‘Then, tell me, Mrs Foster, why are you here?’
‘First, you tell me why the Africans are here.’
The young man looked down, abashed, and Gopal, perhaps feeling this question was too advanced, broke in to make peace: ‘I wish, Mrs Foster, that you could meet Musa’s sisters. They are so beautiful and they have been educated. So advanced is the family, that they are permitted to receive visits from men who are not relatives. And, you will scarcely believe it, when I had the privilege of meeting them, they were not veiled.’
Nimr said eagerly: ‘I too.’
Khalil gave a splutter of laughter: ‘As you said, you are Hindu and Nimr is Christian. You do not count.’
Gopal, again disconcerted, looked towards Musa who was smiling. Musa shrugged his shoulders: ‘It is true you are not Moslem.’
Nimr had become very red and the others, sorry for his embarrassment, rallied him with jokes about his professed passion for Musa’s younger sister. Khalil said daringly: ‘You must be watchful, Musa, or Nimr may run away with her.’
Nimr, delighted, giggled wildly and, bending backwards and forwards, hid his face in his hands, crying: ‘What would you do, Musa, what would you do?’
Musa answered sombrely: ‘I would kill her.’
‘And me,’ Nimr insisted. ‘Would you kill me?’
‘I’m not sure. It may not be necessary.’
The Moslems, drawn together, argued whether or not convention would call for the death of Nimr. Kristy, having no part in the discussion, stared into the depths of the shop to see what was there. A skylight, cracked and very dirty, admitted a glimmer of blue light that fell on to a pile of carpets. The carpets covered most of the floor and the walls were hung with prayer-rugs and embroideries. Beyond this twilit area, there was a formless darkness that seemed to go on for ever.
She looked up and saw above her several dozen glass oil lamps, pink, mauve, green, yellow, blue, of different sizes, but all shaped like a cow’s udder with the teats filled with oil.
When she looked back to the company, she noticed that Gopal was no longer with them. He returned a few minutes later carrying a pink water-lily which he presented to her. The young men applauded this gesture that suggested to them the end of politics and a change to the light-hearted gallantry proper to female company. Musa alone frowned and said: ‘You bought that in the market? It was, I think, stolen from the Praslin.’
‘Surely not,’ said Kristy who was wondering what to do with the large, heavy flower.
‘The servants steal all the time from the Praslin but,’ he shrugged, ‘what does it matter? It is an immoral place; and an insult to Al-Bustan. A hotel on two floors! Who ever heard of such a thing? This is how the English keep us poor. They may build their offices five floors high, but we! We are to stay close to the ground. It is policy. They wish to keep us primitive.’
Now that Musa, their leading spirit, had broken the barrier of courtesy, the others felt free to criticize British rule. Khalil shouted: ‘Why do they not develop the forest area? It is policy. Why do they say there are sea-snakes on the shore? Who has seen these snakes? It is policy. Why can we not have an airfield? It is policy.’
‘Where would you put an airfield?’ Kristy asked.
Zarbay, a slow, serious, bespectacled youth, answered her: ‘It is a simple matter. You build on the sea.’
The others began excitedly to plan what they would do once the tourists could arrive in numbers: a casino in the Residency, a hotel where the Chief Secretary now lived in seclusion. Khalil spoke the words ‘high rise’ and the others took them up with enthusiasm. Everything would be ‘high rise’ when they were free from the oppression of the British.
Their excitement, Kristy thought, was childish, yet they were not children. Their plans were day-dreams but what else had they on this small island, stagnating, they felt, under British rule.
She said: ‘All this would cost money.’
‘We have friends,’ Musa said. ‘We could find investors. Even now a rich man wishes to build hotels but the British obstruct him.’
‘I suppose you mean Lomax?’
Gopal broke in now: ‘Wait, wait. Soon the British must go and we will see.’
‘What?’ Musa scornfully asked: ‘We shall see our island ruled by the blacks. Soon a black dictator will rise. The Arabs will be sent into exile and our women – my si
sters, my beautiful sisters – will be married to old black men.’
Kristy laughed: ‘I can’t see that happening.’
Khalil shouted: ‘Can’t you? It is happening now. It has happened in Zanzibar. The Arab leaders have gone into exile and the girls were seized and given to old men. The beautiful city is deserted because everyone is afraid. That is life under African rule. That is what the British wish for us. Why should you hold power here? Your young people are dirty; they worship nothing; they are un-moral: they stand in the market-place and beg for hashish.’
‘That is enough,’ Gopal said firmly. ‘You have forgotten that Mrs Foster is our guest.’
Khalil rose and looking towards Kristy but not at her, said soberly: ‘I regret my rudeness.’
Musa, also making amends, got slowly to his feet and bowed: ‘If Mrs Foster would visit my sisters, we would be honoured.’
‘Why, that would be very nice,’ Gopal delightedly patted Musa’s arm though to Kristy the invitation sounded more sullen than contrite.
When the young men took themselves off, it was arranged that Kristy should visit the sisters that afternoon. Meanwhile, Gopal invited her to eat at the Bird of Paradise. ‘A restaurant,’ he said, ‘that is singular for kebabs.’
Kristy had not intended to spend the day at the Medina but she agreed to everything, having little else to do. She was, she thought, becoming like the women she had despised, who, lacking initiative in life, were content to tag along after their men.
Gopal, mistaking her silence, as they crossed the market-place, said: ‘Do not be cross with the boys, Mrs Foster. The Moslems, in Ramadan, get a little irritable. But let us forget these arguments about government and I will show you the northern suburbs. All the important people live up here. It is so high, when the North-East Trades blow you can smell the sea.’
But not see it. When they were beyond the sks, they came into lanes that were wider than the southern lanes but enclosed by higher walls. Turning a corner, they met a camel – the first camel of Kristy’s life – led by a cameleer and carrying a howdah on its back. The camel was arrayed in a tasselled saddle-cloth and bells and the howdah, its curtains closed, was richly ornamented. The cameleer held a long stick which he used to keep the camel away from the walls and passers-by away from the camel. Kristy and Dr Gopal were required to press against the wall while the camel, planting its feet like suckers, went grunting past.
As its bells jangled away into the distance, Dr Gopal said respectfully: ‘Ladies visiting.’
‘Who do they visit?’
‘Other ladies, of course.’
The lane ended at a river that came down from the mountain, flowed a short way through the town and then, Gopal said, had been diverted to water the orchards. Here it was trammelled, like a canal, between the backs of houses. The restaurant, that had a balcony overhanging the water, was the only one that seemed to have use for it. The balcony was wired in and thickly screened with creepers. They went by a winding flight of stone steps cut between houses and entered a small, bare room that was both dining-room and kitchen. The proprietor was cooking kebabs over a charcoal fire and the heat was intense. Almost overcome by the smell of roasting meat, Kristy hurried out to the balcony.
‘The sun is not too much?’ Gopal asked: ‘You are tired, Mrs Foster?’
‘A little tired.’
Gopal was very concerned: ‘You have walked too far but when we eat, you will feel better.’
Kristy realized she did not want to eat: she wanted to be back in her room at the Daisy. She no longer saw the day as a vacancy to be filled by any chance entertainment. She wanted to sleep. Sleep, it occurred to her, was the best pastime, the most desirable condition of life. Later, when she was too heavy to care, she would spend her days asleep. But now she had no chance to sleep. Gopal would not even let her stay in her chair but insisted that she come to the balcony rail and look at the river as it ran down through a hole in the city wall and rushed below them. He wanted her to appreciate the sight but in the hard light of midday, it looked to her shabby and overexposed. Though the government did not permit the island rivers to be used as sewers or dumping places, here, away from official eyes, the water was full of household rubbish. Lifting her gaze from it, she looked up to the ridge and asked: ‘Have you been to the other side of the island?’
‘Oh, no, no, Mrs Foster. It is forbidden.’
‘But why? No one seems able to tell us why.’
‘I do not know why but there is, no doubt, a reason.’
‘It is policy, as Musa says.’
Gopal laughed: ‘Musa is a nice boy when you know him. In India we had the same problems so I feel happy to support and encourage such boys.’
‘Is there no more to it than that?’
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no, Mrs Foster, no more than that. Except that I buy from their fathers. Many of the houses still have riches but the people want modern things. So they sell their old things to me.’
‘At bargain prices, I suppose?’
They had returned to the table. Gopal rocked backwards and forwards in his chair, laughing till his eyes ran with tears: ‘Oh, Mrs Foster, you are a very clever lady. It is true, I make bargains but, then, I must too find buyers. I take a risk, you see.’
‘But you are employed by the government. Why do you need to keep a shop?’
‘I had my shop before I entered government service. I am fond of the things I buy. I have my lodging above and my friends come, as you saw today. The shop is their meeting-place.’
‘And the business gives you an excuse for associating with them?’
Gopal put a hand over Kristy’s hand and, laughing, squeezed it. When he stopped laughing, she said: ‘Tell me one thing: why did you and Lomax and that disgusting creature Gurgur go off by yourselves when we had the picnic?’
Gopal reflected on the question before replying: ‘It is no secret. Lomax wants to develop that area, and Musa’s family would be glad to sell the land, but they are all frustrated by the reactionary policies of the government. Lomax will not buy if he is not permitted to build. Are you surprised that the boy feels discontent?’
‘I am on the side of the government in this, but I’m afraid when the island gets independence, development will be inevitable.’
‘Yes, but when will this independence come? The people talk of it but do they want it? They are afraid, not knowing how it will be. The British, for their own ends, support black rule here but the blacks are lazy. They live only for the day and expect the fruits to fall into their mouths. The Arabs, too, they talk and dream. So,’ Gopal threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, ‘what will happen here?’
‘And the Indians?’
‘The Indians work but they do not seek to rule.’
The proprietor came out with coffee and as Kristy glanced towards him, she noticed that Simon Hobhouse was at the table immediately inside the room. The sight of him gave her an irrational sense of shock. Feeling that Hobhouse did not like her, she had decided she did not like him. He must certainly have seen her with Gopal. Now, as he made a decided pretence of not seeing her, she seemed to feel disapproval come from him.
Gopal, following her gaze, also saw Hobhouse and assuming the tone of the born intriguer, he quietly asked: ‘Do you know that man? Is he a friend of your husband? Your husband is aware, of course, that you came to visit me?’
‘No. I forgot to mention it.’
‘Oh, Mrs Foster, this is very bad!’ Gopal, growing red, shifted about in alarm: ‘Before this man can go to him and make trouble, I must go to your husband and explain, I think?’
‘For goodness’ sake! It is not necessary and he would be embarrassed. It is of no importance. He does not object to my having meals with my friends.’
Gopal was not reassured. He had noted her reaction to the sight of Simon Hobhouse and nothing would convince him that she had not suffered a shock of fear and guilt. Gazing anxiously at her, he leant forward to whisper: ‘What would y
our husband do? He would not try to kill me?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He simply would not care. I am free to do what I like, within reason.’
Her very protestations seemed to unnerve Gopal who lost all his self-assertive loquacity and now only wanted to pay the bill and go.
Kristy was depressed, feeling the air infected by misunderstanding. In better times, she might have spoken to Simon, introduced Gopal and put everything right with a few words. Now she had not the spirit to break through Simon Hobhouse’s ostentatious incuriosity: she simply did not feel well enough. She could not swallow the coffee, which was like bile in her throat, and the rush of water beneath the balcony sounded ominous. Like Gopal, she wanted to escape from the situation.
As they left, Gopal gave Hobhouse a rapid glance but Hobhouse, who had opened a book, saw nothing and no one.
Outside, Gopal said in a half-whisper: ‘I think that man did not see you at all.’
Bored with the subject, Kristy said: ‘I don’t think he did.’
‘You understand, Mrs Foster, personally I favour a social freedom but here the world is very small. Often I think it is too small for me. One day, perhaps, I shall open a shop in London and you,’ he paused and laughed, ‘you will introduce me to your important friends, eh?’ He was suddenly diverted from this theme: ‘Mrs Foster, you have left your lotus behind.’
‘I’m sorry. Do you want to go back for it?’
Gopal did not want to go back but he sighed heavily two or three times as they took the steep lanes to the north-west of the city where, contained within the city walls, stood the Abubakr summer palace. The estate was hidden behind a very high wall that was incised with geometrical patterns. When Kristy stopped to admire the patterns, Gopal dismissed them as journeymen’s work.
‘All the richness is inside but we, I fear, will see only the ladies’ reception court.’
They passed the great iron-bound gates of the palace and went on to a small gate where a grille was opened and an old suspicious eye looked out on them. The woman argued for several minutes before she could be persuaded to open the door. When she did open it, she looked blackly at them and strutted angrily ahead of them as they crossed the courtyard.
The Rain Forest Page 16
