“It means to be possessed by a god,” William had told her in his clear precise voice.
On that same evening—they’d been sitting at the time in Wheeler’s Restaurant in Soho, eating a rather good chocolate mousse—William had just announced that suffering was at the core of human life. It was one of the few facts, he said, on which both Buddhists and Christians agreed.
When she’d said to him that she enjoyed lots of things in her life and sometimes couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning, he’d all but winced at the vulgarity of it.
“I’m not talking,” he’d said in a strained and impatient voice, “about, I don’t know, dollies and ponies and the smell of coffee brewing, all those things that everyone talks about when these conversations occur: I’m talking about real and lasting happiness. I believe that if it exists at all, it comes from work, from self-discipline, and not expecting more from people than they can give because they’ll usually let you down.”
Now she wondered why she’d listened so obediently to these sour little lectures of his, when part of her had recoiled from them and known at the time they were only partially true. Of course having work you liked was a great thing, almost everybody in the world knew that, but it was only part of the picture. Now she thought of Talika on Chowpatty Beach dancing barefoot with her kite—sometimes happiness really was that simple.
She stretched out on the rug, closed her eyes, and let thoughts of William drift away. How lovely this was after the busyness and heat of Bombay, to doze on a rug and feel your friends nearby, to see the purplish patterns of sunlight behind your eyelids, to hear wind through pines, like gentle waves on the seashore. As she drifted off to sleep, she could still taste lemon in her mouth and before she could stop it, felt the soft brush of Frank’s lips on hers.
“Oh God!”
She sat up quickly, bumping into Tor, who was lying beside her.
“What happened?” said Tor sleepily. “Were you stung by a bee?”
“I’m all right.” Viva hugged herself. “I’m all right. I nearly fell asleep.”
But she lay there with her heart racing as if she’d escaped some crash or fall.
She mustn’t think of him like that, she told herself, trying to think of all the things she didn’t like about him. For a start: too attractive, and some puritanical part of herself felt this might lead to conceit or carelessness or laziness, because the advantage was unfair and unearned, like being dealt a five-card trick every day of your life, or until your looks faded. She acknowledged she may have been a little unfair to have overlooked some of the pain in his life, and the fact that he clearly took his medical studies more seriously than he let on…and oh, he dressed rather shabbily and his hair always looked as if it needed a cut. But that smile, that wonderful sudden smile, she’d seen on the ship how it melted other hearts, and how she must keep herself aloof from it. Yes, that was definitely it; she still wasn’t at all sure about him. Charm—William had taught her the ancient origins of that word, too—charm, he’d said, was not a superficial or a glossy thing; it meant capable of casting a spell. So maybe that was what she’d felt in Frank’s arms when they had danced, a little giddy, a little unhinged, but nothing she couldn’t put right. He could cast his spells on weaker creatures, she thought, hovering on the edge of sleep. To survive, she’d need all her wits about her.
It was starting to rain again. When she stood up, their driver was approaching them. He was pointing toward the other side of the valley, where thick gray clouds were massing.
“Blast!” said Tor. “We’re going to get soaked.”
The gray pony cantered all the way home, but they were still drenched by the time they got back to the hotel.
They were running under umbrellas toward the veranda when Rose stopped so suddenly that Viva banged her nose on the back of her head.
Frank was standing near the door smiling at them. He was wearing the same crumpled linen suit, carrying his hat in his hand.
Viva felt her heart cartwheel when she saw him, and in the next moment, she almost hated him. What cheek to imagine he could just turn up in the middle of their holiday as if that was all they wanted.
“Madam.” He bent facetiously over Rose’s hand, and brushed it with his lips. “There’s been a spot of bother in Bombay. I thought I should come and escort you all home.”
“Oh, come on, Frank!” Tor was dripping with rain and scarlet in the face. “You can’t fool me; I know exactly why you’re here.”
Viva glared at her. She dug her fingers into the palm of Tor’s hand.
“Frank.” She coolly took his hand. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve ordered tea,” he told her, “in the parlor where we can talk.”
They ran upstairs and changed quickly out of wet clothes and then they walked into the parlor together where the red curtains were open still on what were now sheets of rain. Frank sat down on the fender with his back to the fire and with his legs sprawled easily in front of him.
When Bunty appeared with a tray of tea and scones, she’d changed into a floral dress—the first dress they’d seen her in—and put a faint breath of powder on her weather-beaten cheeks. Viva felt another flash of anger. How dare a man feel so confident, so sure of himself, for he must feel it? How the house’s pulse rate seemed to have gone up since his arrival.
Bunty gave Frank the first cup of tea, and made a fuss about scones and jam for him. Viva heard the ticking of the grandfather clock near the window and then became aware of him looking at her over his teacup. Flustered, she turned away and made a point of telling Bunty what a perfect day they’d had. She asked her about the blue robin she’d read about in the bird book. Was it honestly blue, and was it as cheeky as an English robin?
How false she sounded, even to herself—like somebody’s maiden aunt.
“Yes, they’re marvelous, quite fascinating.” Bunty had heard all this, or something similar, a million times before from other guests and was clearly eager to get back to talking to Frank about his doctoring, as she rather archly called it. “I mean, you honestly work in a Bombay hospital,” she said, as if he’d descended to the last circle of hell. “How awfully brave! Are you what the natives would call a niswarthi?”
“What does that mean?” Tor asked bluntly. She’d been gazing at Frank while he spoke.
“It’s a Hindi word for a selfless man.” Bunty beamed at him.
“Oh Lord, no, not that.” Frank stretched his legs out and smiled the smile. “I’m only doing it for the beer and cigarettes.”
And there he was again, Viva decided, a fine young male animal surrounded by a pride of admiring females. The same Frank she’d mistrusted on the ship. Well, it was a relief at least to have got that straight.
Bunty retired after tea to supervise the clearing of the gutters and to check that all the animals’ shelters were rain-proof. Sometimes in May, she said, speaking directly to Frank, they got a curtain-raiser to the monsoon, which could be frightening. Last year, during a freak storm, twenty inches of rain had fallen in twenty-four hours and a large chunk of their drive near the house had collapsed.
“Heavens,” said Rose weakly. “Never a dull moment.”
After she’d gone, a servant entered the room. He drew the curtains, lit the lamps, and adjusted their wicks before closing the door behind him.
“So, Frank,” teased Rose, when they were on their own again, “tell us about this spot of bother in Bombay, or was that all a ploy to come on holiday with the glee club?”
“Unfortunately not.” Frank had moved to a wing-backed chair near the window. His playful manner had gone. “The Muslims and the Hindus have been rioting in the streets for two days now. Nothing unusual about that, but some of it has been fierce: I saw them set light to a man in the street. They poured petrol over him. He went up like a guy on Bonfire Night.”
“Oh my God.” Viva was thinking of the home, of Suday and Talika and Daisy and Mr. Jamshed.
“Don’t worry yet,�
� he said. “It’s all fairly localized in the hutments around Mandvi. Byculla’s quiet, and so’s Malabar Hill. It will all die down as soon as it starts. But I didn’t like the idea of you traveling home alone and I had two days off.”
He looked directly at Viva as if explaining himself to her.
“We thought you should get back before Tuesday—there’s a big Congress meeting then and there could be riots around the VT Station. They’re certainly laying on extra beds at the hospital. Your husband phoned, Mrs. Mallinson,” Frank told Rose. “He was going to take the Poona train down to Bombay to meet you, but he can’t—all leave is canceled.”
Rose’s expression did not change.
“You’ll be fine in the ladies’ carriage back to Poona,” Frank assured her. “After all, this has nothing to do with us, they’re fighting each other, but he’s naturally concerned.”
“Naturally,” said Rose drily. “How kind of you both to think of it, but I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
Rose stood up, her yellow hair swinging against the lamp and almost touching the flame. She said she was very tired and thought she would go to bed. She turned at the door and said it had been a wonderful day and she would never forget it.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said again.
“Who’s worried?” said Tor, standing up. “Anything that stops me going home is fine with me.” They all laughed as if she was joking, but she wasn’t.
Rain had begun to fall with a hard splintering sound like pebbles against the window.
“I’m going to bed, too.” Viva stood up.
“Stay for a moment,” he said. “There’s something else I need to tell you. Sit down first.”
He reached over and held her hand.
“I’m afraid there is no easy way of saying this, so I’ll say it quickly. There’s a rumor that Guy’s been murdered. I’m so sorry.”
“What?” She stared at him stupidly for a while. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a rumor,” he said. “It may all be wrong, but the police say he’s not in his lodgings, and when his parents were contacted, they said they hadn’t seen him for weeks. A burned overcoat with his name in it was found in a street near your house. Apparently, he moved there a month ago.”
“He was up here just last week.” Viva felt her stomach tighten. “I don’t know why.”
“I don’t know either.”
“Why did you say nothing had happened in Byculla?”
“Nothing did, apart from this.”
“Does Mr. Jamshed know?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. And none of this may be as bad as it sounds, but I thought you should know, or at least be warned.”
“Who told you?”
“A policeman, one of the Byculla locals. He’s the one who’s had his eye on Guy.”
“Oh no!” She felt water gush into her mouth. “Are you saying they torched him?” She thought she was going to be sick.
Frank steered her into a chair.
“I don’t know,” he said again.
She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nobody really knows yet, but the policeman told me that the brother of the man Guy beat up on the ship is named Anwar Azim. He’s very powerful, very political, and he is part of the All India Muslim League, which Guy, for reasons still unclear, has got himself involved in. Azim made his own inquiries about the incident on the ship—that was probably just a case of bribing a few lascars—and then took matters into his own hands.”
“But surely our police will do something about this?”
“Not necessarily. Quite frankly, it’s all too messy. It couldn’t come at a worse time.”
“Is it that bad?”
Her voice had started to judder. He put his arm around her, but she drew away.
“Nobody really knows.” He was trying to soothe her.
“No, please,” she protested. “Don’t soft-soap it. Tell me the truth. Oh, Guy!” She pictured him suddenly: like a cloth doll in flames.
“I don’t know the truth yet,” said Frank. “Only random facts.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” he watched her anxiously, “there could be a big split soon in the party, and then anything could happen, or nothing, nobody really knows.”
“Who told you all this, about Guy I mean?” Her mind seemed to be going backwards and forwards.
“The police. They gave me this.” He handed her a thin wallet and a packet of photographs. “They said they were his. They asked me to give them back to his parents.”
“Perhaps we should look at them first.”
“I already have. Some are of you. Look.” He pointed toward a close-up of Viva walking in the street near the children’s home. She was wearing a summer dress, she was smiling at Parthiban, the man who sold her mangoes on her way to work. Underneath it, he’d written in black ink, in a childlike scrawl, “Mataji”—my mother.
In the second photograph she was sitting on the Chowpatty Beach, with Talika asleep on the sand beside her. Behind them was a sky full of kites. Underneath it, he’d misspelled her name, Miss Viva Hallaway, and written, “Is she Cain, or is she Abel?”
“He’s been following me,” she said.
“If it hadn’t been you, it would have been somebody else,” said Frank. “He’s desperate for someone to love, or blame.”
“How horrible.” She was starting to shake. “I didn’t love him at all, I almost hated him. I should never have taken him on.”
She felt Frank’s arm around her shoulder. “This is not your fault,” he said gently. “He was sent back to England, alone, at the age of six. He was warped from that moment on, even he knew that. I’m also more and more convinced he has serious mental problems.”
A flame flared up in the fireplace. She saw Guy in it—his eyes staring, the teeth bared, grinning.
“I don’t think we should tell Rose and Tor until it’s confirmed,” she said. “What’s the point of frightening them until we’re sure it’s true?”
Frank screwed up his face. “I thought about that all the way up,” he said. “But it’s a lot for you to have to carry on your own.”
“Does Daisy know?”
“Not yet.”
She got up with the vague idea of going to bed; she was dizzy and felt his arm again.
“Let me help you,” he said gently.
“I’m in the cottage across the lawn,” she said.
As they walked across the sodden grass, a gust of wind flung her coat around her and a faint, bilious wash of light lit up the hills across the valley.
“There’s a big storm coming,” he told her.
“Horrible, horrible, horrible.” She was crying now, thinking of Guy’s hair burning, his clothes on fire. “He didn’t deserve it.”
She felt Frank’s arm around her shoulder.
“We don’t know yet,” he said. “Hold on to that—the place is alive with rumors.”
There was a boom in the distance, another flash of light, the rain unleashed itself in one sudden sheet of water and both of them were drenched.
Her hands were trembling so violently it took her ages to find her key in her handbag. When she handed it to him, she saw his wet shirt showing every rib and the hollows of his shoulders, the curve of a young man’s waist.
“You’re wet to the skin, Viva,” he said. When he touched her, she cried out and then he touched her very gently again, her shoulders, her belly, her arms, and she closed her eyes and put her head on his shoulder.
There was one small light burning beside the bed in Viva’s room. She’d left a dress on the floor and on her desk her pens, a carafe of water, her journals.
He took a towel from the stand beside the bed, he rubbed her face dry. She had no words for the tears that poured down her face, or for the shivering that had started in her body. Tenderly, he rubbed her hair; he took off her soaking coat, then her cardigan and dropped it on
the floor. He wrapped a dry towel around her.
“Stay with me for a while,” she said, feeling him about to leave. Her teeth were chattering.
When he lay down, she hugged him like a child with her eyes squeezed shut. Somewhere dimly in the background she could hear the sharp pebblelike sound of the rain falling on a tin roof. She heard the moaning of the wind, and everything became simple as she pulled him on top of her: her hunger and his young man’s body on top of hers, blocking out death.
When it was over, he looked at her. He shook his head and both of them looked at each other in fear and wonder. Then he gathered her up, all of her, and groaned and shook his head again.
“Don’t say you love me,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-nine
For their own safety, Frank insisted they travel first class on their way home, but even so Tor felt like crying—everybody seemed so out of sorts. Frank and Viva sat across the aisle from her, as far away from each other as possible. Rose was silent and bunched up near the window, and Tor, finding nobody wanted to talk, felt all her high spirits draining away.
She brooded for a while on her weight gain. Last night, after supper, she’d sat down with a clunk on the large sitting-down weighing scales that Jane kept on the landing floor, underneath a picture of the Ooty polo team, lean, fit-looking men every one of them.
Jane had boasted that these ornately carved scales were exact replicas of the ones in the Bombay Yacht Club and were accurate to the ounce, which was why her heart had sunk as she watched the needle rise toward eleven stone. Even at her heaviest, in London, she’d never been eleven stone; her mother would have plenty to say about that.
“I’m vast,” she’d complained a few moments later to Rose, pinching her flesh in front of the cheval mirror. “A hundred-and-fifty-four-pound baby elephant, and d’you know, what’s really upsetting is that it only makes me want to eat more.”
East of the Sun Page 34
