“What? What are you talking about?” He half-turned his head toward me. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
“I just thought if you were, if you’d take me with you.”
“What’s got into you?” He very slightly moved his shoulder—no more than a twitch, but I took my hand away. I thought he was annoyed because I had asked to be taken with him. Although he did sometimes take me, he certainly didn’t want to be asked; that would have meant being tied down, someone making a demand on him. But now it seemed what had irritated him was my suggestion that he was going away somewhere: “You know perfectly well I can’t, with everything going on.”
I said “What’s going on?” His exclamation made me retrieve that a bit: “You mean, the Fourth World and all of that—”
“What else would I mean. You’re not being serious, Harriet. And you have to be because it’s very serious and important for us. For everyone.”
“You mean the whole world?”
“Yes of course I mean the whole world—what do you think it’s all about?”
There was silence between us, irritated on his part, sad on mine. The figures were drawing closer—by the dull silver light from the sky I could make out Jean with Lindsay, and at some distance Manton with Barbara. But most of the guests remained on the lower lawn; still no one wanted to go home. There were faint sounds of laughter coming from there, something was going on; I could make out some sort of animal noises—was it hens? cows? I guessed Mr. McKimberley was doing his animal imitations, which were always popular at local gatherings, though it took a few drinks before he could be induced to perform them. The guests had by now dipped freely into the punch bowl and were ready to be taken out of themselves. The night was peaceful, the trees asleep, but the balmy air seemed shot through with expectation and excitement. Or was this only emanating to me from Michael as he leaned against the window, looking at the flags and perhaps also trying to see where Crishi was? Jean and Lindsay had drawn near the house, and I could see that Jean had grabbed hold of Lindsay’s arm—no doubt they were having one of their intense scenes.
I said “If the Rawul takes over the house, what’s going to happen to Lindsay and Jean?”
“They can stay and work for him. It’ll give them something more to think about than fighting with each other.”
“They’re doing it now,” I said, pointing them out to him.
“I don’t have to see that. And neither do you.” When he was mad at something, Michael literally ground his teeth: “That’s why I’m glad this has happened—the Rawul and everything—to get away for once in our lives from all the personal squalor.”
But actually Michael had never done anything except get away from it. He had never allowed himself to be involved. When we were children, he saw to it that we had games and secluded places of our own, whether it was here in the house or in different embassies with our grandparents. Later, when he grew up, he traveled to faraway places; but even in between these journeys, when he was physically present and surrounded by his family, he always managed to be engrossed in something of his own; to absent himself in spirit. He tried to make me do the same, but I did not have his gift for it. Michael had never cared what people thought of him and made no effort to please or placate anyone. Both our parents were afraid of him; it’s a terrible thing to say, but I think neither of them liked him. Michael was the one subject on which they were in agreement.
He was pushing up the screen window in order to lean out: for Crishi had come running across the grounds and stood under the window to shout up to us. He was asking if we had any fireworks—“Everyone says there has to be fireworks!” “Do we have any?” Michael turned to me. I said “We were only expecting everyone for the afternoon. That’s all they were invited for.” “Well now we need them. Everyone wants to stay.”
Crishi called for us to come down, but only Michael went. I decided that for me the party was over; I was tired—it may have been from having been made to run all those races, but not only that. I wanted to go and lie down in my room without turning the light on and to be as alone as possible. But I didn’t even get there—as I was going from Michael’s room to mine, Jean came storming up the stairs. When she saw me, she said “You can help me carry them, though really I feel like flushing them down the toilet. The goddamn flipping fireworks,” she said, going into her room.
I followed her. Jean’s room was the homeliest and tidiest in the house. She kept everything just so: her luggage stowed away on upper shelves, her tortoiseshell brush, comb, and mirror set, and her Mickey Mouse alarm clock she had since her college days, winter clothes in polyethylene bags in back of her closet, and in front her boots and shoes arranged in rows, the better ones with trees in them. She had boxes of fireworks on the same shelf as her Christmas tree decorations and also cartons of old photographs and letters, everything numbered. As she was getting down the fireworks and handing them to me, she said indignantly, “I told her this is not what I went and got them for; not for this crowd.”
“Then why are you giving them?”
“How many fights can you have,” she said dully. “The moment she heard what they wanted—‘Oh Jean’s got fireworks haven’t you Jean, go and get them.’ And we’d talked about it, we’d agreed—not this year, not with all these people here. Not after last year.”
I tried to remember last year and it took some effort. For me, it had been very dull. Michael hadn’t been here—in fact, there was no one except Lindsay and Jean and me. I suppose that was what Jean was remembering. At night the three of us had sat by the lake and Jean had let off these fireworks and at each one Lindsay had exclaimed “Oh Jean look!” She clasped her hands and had stars in her eyes. I must have dozed off at one point, and when I woke up, the display was over, and Jean and Lindsay were sitting on the bank with their arms around each other, not talking at all, looking at the moon in the sky and again in the lake.
I helped her pack the boxes in shopping bags and carry them down, but I didn’t want to come out with her. I held the door open, so she could get through; just as she was going down the porch steps, the Rani was coming up them. Jean had her back to me so I couldn’t see how—if at all—she returned the Rani’s greeting, which was very friendly. And the Rani was also very friendly to me as she passed me through the door, and whispered, coming up close, “I have to go to the little girl’s room.” It was not the first time I had been taken aback by the Rani’s simpleness. In fact, almost every time I heard her say anything, it seemed to be banal or naïve. Maybe that was why she rarely spoke at all—because she knew she could not live up to the expectations aroused by her spectacular looks.
I shut the door of my room and was glad to be alone. But after a while I was surprised to hear the Rani calling me—she was opening doors along the landing, trying to find me. When I came out to see what she wanted, she said “Come along—time to join the fun”; she sounded like a games mistress I had had when I was at school in England for a year.
I told her I had a headache and wanted to rest. “Oh poor Harriet,” she said, in a voice rich in warmth and sympathy. She followed me and turned on the light—“So this is your room?” She looked around and noted how little there was to see, how bare it was, on principle; and “Charming,” she lied politely.
“Do you mind turning the light out? It’s hurting my eyes.”
“Oh—” another very warm sound; and she sat down next to me, close by me on the bed, in the dark. “Poor darling,” she breathed at me, and touched my brow and gently pressed it with her fingers. It seemed to me that her fingers were transmitting a strange sensation into my brain, but this may have been just my imagination, which was overwhelmed by her physical presence so close to me. She exuded, from inside her heavy silk, a perfume compounded of some costly essence of blossoms and of her own womanliness: This mixture was as potent as those flowering Oriental bushes that come at you in waves of cloying scent and knock out your sense of smell.
However, her conver
sation continued absolutely banal, and in a tone and language that combined schoolgirl with games mistress: “We’ve had the most lovely day, Harriet; such fun; such a good time. . . . I’m sorry you have a headache—is this doing you any good? no? should I stop? It must be with all the excitement we’ve had, and perhaps the sun, running in the sun. I saw you run with Crishi—you were fab, Harriet! Quite a team, aren’t you, you two? We should be entering you for the Olympics—just joking, dear; I can be very silly sometimes. . . . Everyone has been so kind, all those nice, nice people down there. Mr. What’s-it from the bank, and the sweet lady who comes to clean. And your parents, Harriet: I like them enormously, both of them. And it’s a great, great privilege for us to be in an American home, and today is such an important day for you isn’t it, historically. We’re very proud that you’ve allowed us to share it with you. It’s wonderful to have such good friends,” she summed up, “and the whole day’s been adorable. . . . I think they’re calling us.”
“They’re calling you.”
From all sides down below her name rang out—her name, or was it her title—“Rani! Rani!”—truly, it was like a queen being implored to show herself. And like a queen she stepped to my window—“Rani! Rani!”—it was a chorus, everyone had taken it up, some seriously, some in fun, or just to join in. “Aren’t they childish,” she said, smiling, but at the same time she did make a gracious gesture with her hand in acknowledgment. And when I joined her at the window, she put her arm around my shoulders as if I were—I don’t know what—maybe some junior princess, anyway someone to be drawn forward and drawn in. I stood still—I had no alternative—I could hardly shake her off with all those people looking up at us. I didn’t see Crishi down below—no wonder, for he was already in the house, up the stairs, and there he was rapping on my door and then inside without waiting for an answer.
“Aren’t you coming for the fireworks? Everyone’s waiting for you.”
“Yes we’re just on our way down—we got talking. Girl talk,” she said with a merry laugh.
“And in the dark,” he said, turning on the light. “It must have been some very intimate secrets.”
“Oh but of course. Harriet and I’ve had a good gossip, haven’t we. Only she’s got a headache—no don’t look at me. I didn’t give it to her with my chitter-chatter, she had it before. The poor thing.” Again she rubbed her fingertips over my forehead, only this time I moved away.
I didn’t want them in my room. In those few moments, they seemed already to have taken possession of it—as easily and completely as of the rest of the house. Crishi picked up the lump of rock Michael had brought me from Ladakh, but he must have felt the vibrations coming from me, so he put it down again; he said “I’m sorry you have a headache,” very sweetly and sympathetically.
I turned away from him; I didn’t want to look at him. It wasn’t that I was just sulking—I was really angry with him; the feelings he had inspired in me during the race hadn’t worn off. He must have been aware of this, for he did not try to get around me. Instead he said to the Rani: “Do something to your hair.” “Oh am I the most awful fright?” She turned to my mirror and said “Goodness,” and was already pulling pins out, so that glorious dark waves shimmering with auburn fell over her shoulders and down her back. She took my comb and used it swiftly and effectively, and in no time at all she had coiled everything back into her usual perfect coiffure. Crishi knelt down on the floor and did something to the folds of silk cloth around her ankles, and when he got up, she said “Now how?” He examined her, gave an expert flick to her neckline, and said “Not bad.” She tucked her arm in his, ready to go down. “Sure you won’t come?” he asked me, but didn’t insist. As they stood there arm in arm, both of them full of sympathy for me, hoping I would soon be better, they did look like mother and son rather than anything else. Maybe because he was so slim and youthful-looking, whereas she was almost matronly, and the layer of gold embroidery on the front of her dress made her bosom burgeon even more. And there was something familial in their attitude to each other—his slight air of patronage, and her smiling submission to it like a mother who is terribly proud of her son.
But when they were gone, I thought, Why should I care what or who they are to each other? She had left behind a hair in the comb she had used—I pulled it out to throw away; it was surprisingly thick and strong, more like a piece of wire than a hair. Their lingering presence in my room disturbed me: Actually, it was not so much lingering—that word has something light about it—but more like a cloud heavy with storm and thunder. In fact, it felt so oppressive inside that I thought the weather must have changed; but when I stepped to the window, I found the night to be perfectly balmy and still. The whole party had moved to the edge of the lake in anticipation of the fireworks. I watched from above, looking not so much toward the lake as at the tops of the trees, which seemed to have a veil over them from the softly lit night sky. The first of the rockets came spluttering up, and another and another, popping open and for a moment spreading a little garish color, only to die away very quickly. In contrast, stars and moon, which had appeared dim before, shone with a bright and steady light. Some more fireworks went up—I could hear halfhearted cheering down below—but it was hopeless. Jean’s fireworks might have been good enough for a few friends, or for two lovers sitting with their arms around each other by the lake, but they didn’t make much of a show at a party, especially not one in celebration of a new world movement. It was a relief when the display was over.
I went down, and found that disappointment with the fireworks had had a bad effect on the party. The local people were beginning to say they were sorry they had missed the fireworks at the high school, which were the usual culmination of this day; some of them thought that, if they hurried, they might still see at least the end of them, so they moved off to their cars and drove away. Mrs. Pickles whispered to Mrs. Schwamm to ask if supper was going to be served—throwing Mrs. Schwamm into a fit of red-faced indignation, her first that day, which had been an unusually benign one for her. “Eating and drinking all day like pigs, and now they ask for supper,” she complained to me. Mrs. Pickles then led off another contingent of local people to the high school, where homemade lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies were traditionally served after the fireworks. The remaining guests, finding that they had overstayed the events of the day, began to wonder which hosts to thank and say good-bye to. The obvious ones were the Rawul, Rani, and Crishi—they stood expectant and smiling, and as fresh as they had been at the start. They returned thanks more effusive than those they received, so that the guests felt themselves royally honored; and it would have been a fine high note for them to leave on, if they hadn’t remembered that there was another set of hosts to be thanked.
Unfortunately, Lindsay was not as fresh as she had been at the start of the day. It seemed she had felt shamed by the inadequacy of the fireworks and was blaming Jean, who fought back: “But it was you told me to get them!”
“How was I to know you bought this crummy lot—oh are you going? Sweet of you to come—but of course I might have guessed, you’re always so cheap, Jean.”
The guests backed away, their smiles cooling on their lips. But here Manton stepped forward as a responsible person, and they were relieved to shake the hand he held out to them so warmly: “Wish you could stay—yes wasn’t it fun—hope you’ll be with us again soon.” Manton had the ability to remember faces and usually to put the right name to them; and even when he didn’t, he compensated with extra cordiality, making the guests feel as good with him as with the Rawul’s contingent. So it happened that they began to go straight from the latter to Manton—bypassing Lindsay, who was awkwardly engaged with Jean.
“They would have been fine in Dubuque, Iowa”—which was where Jean came from, from a very down-home background—“but hardly—goodness!—here at Propinquity. Or did you do it on purpose, to make me feel an utter fool in front of my guests?”
Although her complexion, under
her crop of gray-brown hair, had turned ruddier than usual, Jean remained admirably unprovoked. But as Lindsay’s voice rose—“I’m sure you did it on purpose!”—Jean moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “Have you been—?” Lindsay stepped back, instinctively averting her face. Lindsay had never been alcoholic but she did have tendencies that way—it was in her family—and right from the beginning of their relationship, Jean had thought it necessary to control her intake. Lindsay wanted to be controlled; all her life she had been looking for someone to do just that. But that day she had dipped as freely as everyone else into the bowl of punch we had prepared, so now she felt guilty, and instead of wanting to continue her quarrel with Jean, she was anxious to get away from her.
At once she found an opportunity: Having averted her face from Jean, she saw Manton bidding his gracious farewell to the guests. The sight enraged her, and she strode over to him. She had long slender legs, made for golf courses and country walking; she didn’t go in for either, or any sport, but when she was indignant, she strode on them with the energy of a resolute sportswoman. It was in that way she moved in on Manton and hissed “Get out of my house.”
Manton had been brought up as a gentleman and could, at least for a few minutes, keep his poise. So he went right on saying “Delighted you could come” to the guest whose hand he happened to be shaking, even retaining that hand for a while in extra cordiality, though the embarrassed guest was straining to get away.
“Right this minute,” Lindsay said, not troubling to keep her voice down, so that the next guest too could hear her. Two spots of high color had appeared on Manton’s cheekbones.
I heard Crishi murmur to Michael, “You’d better do some thing about your parents.” Lindsay was really losing her head. Addressing the line of guests waiting to shake Manton’s hand, she said “You don’t have to thank him, he has no business to be here in the first place.” She shook the next hand herself and put on a manner even grander and more effusive than his.
Three Continents Page 7
