The Shadow Lines

by Amitav Ghosh

  I felt a touch on my arm; May was looking at me, anxiously. Are you all right? she said. Shall I tell him to stop?

  No – I shook my head. Then I picked her hand off my arm and rubbed it between mine.

  Well, well, she said drily, drawing her hand back.

  I leant across, slipped my arm around her shoulder and kissed her, running the tip of my tongue over her earlobe.

  For a moment she was too startled to speak; then she gasped and her body went rigid. She put her hands on my chest and pushed me back.

  You’re stinking of drink, she said, grimacing. I hope you’re not going to make any trouble.

  I caught the driver’s eye in the mirror. He was a young West Indian. He was watching me, his eyes flicking from the road to the mirror and back again, expressionless. His hand snaked out to the dashboard when he caught my glance. He toyed with something and let it fall back with a clink. It was a knuckleduster: he smiled when he next caught my eye.

  By the time we reached her house May was worried; I could tell from the awkwardness of her gestures as she paid off the driver. But I was merely curious; it didn’t occur to me that she was afraid, and that her fear might have had something to do with me.

  Please don’t make a noise going up the stairs, she said, spacing the words out, speaking slowly. The landlady gets very annoyed if she’s woken up.

  I’ll be quiet, I said. I reached out and ran a finger through her hair.

  Stop that! she cried, jerking her head away. What do you think you’re doing?

  Shh! I said. You’ll wake the landlady.

  She tiptoed up the stairs, opened her door, and shut it quickly behind me.

  Now you go over there, she said, pointing to her bed. Get into bed and go to sleep at once. I’m afraid I can’t give you anything to change into, so you’ll have to go to bed as you are.

  At once? I said, grinning. I know you don’t mean that; not really. Please, she said. Her voice was hoarse now. Please go to bed.

  I turned to look at the bed: it was small and narrow, piled high with quilts and blankets and covered with a green bedspread.

  All of a sudden, an idea occurred to me.

  But if I sleep over there? I said, with drunken cunning. Where will you sleep?

  I’ll be all right, she said quickly. Don’t worry about me.

  But I can’t help worrying about you, I said. Where will you sleep?

  She went over to the bed and drew the covers back. It was perfectly made up, with clean new sheets and pillowcases, but it looked curiously unused. There were sachets of pot-pourri under the quilts, and the sheets smelt mustily of lavender and roses.

  I don’t sleep on the bed anyway, she said, picking out the sachets of pot-pourri.

  Oh really? I said. So if you don’t sleep here, whose bed do you sleep in?

  She flashed me a quick, bright glance. I sleep over there, she said, pointing across the room, at the floor.

  Where? I said.

  Without answering, she opened a cupboard and took out a thin mattress, a couple of blankets and a sheet, and carried them across the room. Kneeling, she unrolled the mattress and spread it out on the floor. It was very thin; not much more than a sheet.

  You can’t sleep there, I said in astonishment. I don’t believe you do. Why’ve you got a bed then?

  Oh, that, she said. That’s for people to see – so that they won’t think me odd.

  But you don’t even have a pillow, I said.

  No, she said wryly. That was the hardest bit to get used to.

  Why do you do it? I said. It must be horrible sleeping down there.

  It’s not too bad, she said briskly. ‘No big deal’ as they say on television. After all, this is how most people in the world sleep. I merely thought I’d throw in my lot with the majority.

  She sprang up and dusted her hands. All right, she said. Now go to bed – please.

  Can I mortify my flesh too? I said. Can I sleep over there with you?

  She began to laugh, the tension draining out of her face.

  You’re going to feel really stupid about all this tomorrow morning, she said. I’m longing to see the look on your face when I remind you.

  Please May, I said.

  You idiot, she said, laughing. You’re just drunk; you don’t really want to – I’m old enough to be your spinster aunt.

  I do, I said. I really do.

  Well, we’ll see if you can bring yourself to say that when you’re sober, she said. And as for now, you’ll just have to go without, won’t you?

  She pushed me gently towards the bed. Now, please go to bed, she said.

  You’re laughing at me, I said, knocking her hand away. You shouldn’t laugh at me.

  I reached out, took her face in my hands and pulled her towards me.

  Please don’t, she said, her eyes widening with fear. Please.

  Why not? I said. I kissed her on her open mouth, and slid my right hand quickly down her neck, into her blouse and under the strap of her brassière.

  Stop! she cried, clawing at my face.

  Why? I said. I pinned her against my body with my left hand, holding her tight, so that she couldn’t get her hands free. My right hand was deep inside her dress now, cupped around her breast.

  With a tremendous effort, teeth clenched, she squirmed out of my grasp, threw herself backwards, and fell on the mattress. There was a ripping sound as her dress tore open and I was left clutching the air. When I looked down at her, she was crouching on the mattress, and her breast was hanging down, out of the rent in her dress, flapping against her ribs.

  You bastard! she screamed. She flew off the bed and across the room and suddenly the lights went out. I heard her going across the room, to the bathroom, and I slunk over to the bed and crept in. I was asleep within a moment.

  When I woke up next morning my head was throbbing and my mouth tasted of sour bile. I could hear plates rattling in the kitchen. I raised my head and saw May standing at the wash basin; she had changed into a pair of faded brown corduroy jeans and a white pullover, and her grey-streaked hair was tied in a ponytail with a rubber band. Her mattress and blankets were neatly rolled up, standing in a corner.

  I was about to call out to her when an image of her, crouching on the mattress, trying to shield her naked breast, flickered before my eyes. I fell back on the pillow and shut my eyes, and slowly everything I had done and said the night before came back to me, in minute, ghastly detail.

  She must have known I was awake; seen the sweat on my face. I heard her voice, low and gravelly, above me, saying: Well? Do you think you’re ready to eat something now?

  When I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me, her face calm, grave.

  May … I began. I could not look at her; I let my head fall.

  Yes? she said coolly. I knew she was waiting.

  I don’t know how … I began again. I raised my head with an effort; she was still looking at me, her gaze steady, unwavering.

  I’m afraid you’ll have to think of some way of saying it, she said. That’s absolutely the very least I expect.

  I’m sorry, I said. What else can I say? Is there anything I can do to show you how sorry I am?

  She was still looking at me steadily, but now there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

  Not feeling quite such a he-man now, may we surmise? she said.

  Yes.

  Her lips twisted into a smile and she stretched out a hand and rapped me on the back of my head.

  Go on, she said. Get out of bed and wash your face. Then I’ll see about making you some breakfast.

  By the time I was out of the bathroom, a plate of fried eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice were waiting for me on her table. I was very hungry now; I remembered I had eaten nothing the night before. But May was still busy in the kitchen so I stood behind a chair and waited.

  Don’t wait for me, she called out. Go on – eat. You must be hungry after all your exertions.

  But what about
you? I said awkwardly. Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?

  I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, she said. In fact, if I were you, I would address myself to the toast and eggs before they get cold and squishy. The bread is that wholewheat stuff we’re told we ought to eat nowadays – the trouble is it transmutes itself back into dough if it’s left to itself for more than a minute.

  Without another word, I sat down and began to eat. Soon, she finished putting away her plates and stood leaning on the wall, watching me eat.

  Some more toast? she said.

  Yes, I said. But what about you? Aren’t you going to eat anything?

  She handed me another slice and shook her head.

  Have you had your breakfast already then?

  No.

  I was puzzled now. So then? I said.

  I’m not going to eat any breakfast today, she said.

  Why not?

  She laughed. Evidently, she said, in Calcutta they don’t know the old adage about curiosity and cats. The answer to your question is: I’m not going to eat any breakfast today because this is a Saturday.

  What does that mean? I said, mystified.

  I don’t eat anything on Saturdays, she said. It’s what you might call my fast day.

  Your fast day? I said. Do you mean you fast every Saturday?

  She nodded: That is exactly what I mean. But why? I said.

  This is beginning to sound like a catechism, she said. Well, I fast because it occurred to me a few years ago that it might not be an entirely bad idea to go without something every once in a while: who knows what the future has in store for me – or you, or, for that matter, the human race? We may as well try and prepare ourselves. And since, as far as I’m concerned, most days of the week are pretty much alike, I thought it might as well be Saturday. Your toast’s going cold again; I feel I ought to warn you.

  I can’t understand it, I said. I think you’re joking.

  Oh please, she said. Don’t go on about it – it’s not worth the bother.

  She went into the kitchenette and came back with a carton of orange juice.

  I don’t know whether you have any plans for the day, she said, filling my glass. But as for myself I have to be out on streets collecting money for one of my several worthy causes. I’ve been assigned to the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street – which is the prestige beat amongst us Good Workers, I’ll have you know – one of the most lucrative. You can come with me if you like.

  What are you collecting money for?

  For famine relief, she said. In Africa mainly. But who knows? Even you may benefit from it some day.

  All right, I said, licking honey and butter off my lips. I’ll come with you. I may not be of much use, but I’d like to.

  It’ll be very crowded, she said, and not particularly pleasant. I warn you.

  Oh, I’m used to crowds, I said.

  Well, we’ll see, she said. You may find this particular kind of crowd a little overpowering.

  As it turned out, she was right. The moment we stepped out of the underground station at the intersection of Oxford Street and Regent Street, with our posters under our arms and collection boxes in our hands, I found myself awash, floundering in the torrent of shoppers, hurrying past, laden with plastic bags and packages. Before I knew it, I was swept away, and when I looked around all I could see was the tall windows of the department stores, glittering with lights and mannequins, and the stream of shoppers, stretching all the way down the street. Then I heard May’s voice and saw her, at the corner, laughing at me, and waving. It took a while before I could get back to her; I had to work my way around the stream, keeping my back to the shop windows.

  So you’re used to crowds, May said, laughing.

  She showed me how to hang the posters on the railing that divided the pavement from the road. Then she tapped my collection box and said: Go on – good hunting.

  I stood at the edge of the flowing crowd and held out the box, hopefully. But after a quarter of an hour nobody had yet stopped to drop anything into it, and I began to wonder whether they could even see me. I stood back against the railing, in dejection, and watched May.

  It was clear at once that she was skilled at the job; her usual tentative and rather shy manner had vanished, her voice had become loud and commanding. She would pick an individual in the crowd, catch his or her eye, step up and thrust out the box. Invariably, they dropped something into it.

  I went back again to try out her technique, and soon people began to drop coins into my box too. A couple of hours later, with my box half full, I worked my way back to May’s side and sat down, using the box as a seat.

  Tired already? May said.

  Taking a break, I told her. Can’t we go somewhere and have a coffee?

  No, she said. We’ve got work to do.

  Tell me, I said, you must be quite senior in the Good Works hierarchy. You ought to be deciding where the helicopters go and things like that, shouldn’t you? Surely you don’t have to do this kind of legwork any more. This must be for rank novices.

  I like doing this, she said. It seems, well, somehow useful.

  She looked down at me and smiled, a wry, gentle smile that softened the harsh lines of her face.

  Do you know, I said, that’s exactly how you used to look when I first met you. Do you remember? I was looking up at you then, just as I am now.

  You had to look up at everyone then, she said, thrusting her collection box at a woman with a purple hat.

  But do you remember? I said.

  Yes, of course, she said. It was at Howrah Station, wasn’t it?

  She had arrived on the Frontier Mail. My father, Tridib and I had gone to meet her.

  I was very worried on the way to Howrah. How will you know her? I kept asking Tridib – you don’t even know what she looks like now, you haven’t seen her since she was a little baby.

  But Tridib wasn’t worried. I’ll recognise her somehow, he said, you wait and see.

  But of course I did worry: I didn’t know they’d exchanged photographs. Secretly, I was sure it would be I who’d recognise her first. This was because I had developed a theory about her name. Her name had puzzled me at first: I’d wondered why she had been named after a month. Then I read somewhere that English buttercups flowered in May. The rest was easy: obviously she was called May because she looked like a buttercup. I was certain I would recognise her first: I was the only person there who knew what to look for.

  We were waiting on the platform when the Frontier Mail steamed in. A huge crowd spilled out of it and swept down the platform. We waited for half an hour, but there was still no sign of her. Tridib was less sanguine now; he was beginning to bite his fingernails. I was close to tears.

  It turned out exactly as I had expected: I saw her first. She was standing patiently beside a tea-stall with her suitcase between her legs. I was stunned: she did not look remotely like anything I had expected. She saw me staring at her and waved tentatively. Then my father saw her too and waved back.

  She picked up her suitcase and came running up to us. Dropping it on the platform, she shook hands with my father, and then looked down at me, from what seemed like a great height, and ruffled my hair, smiling, so that her blue eyes shimmered like water in a breeze.

  I was no longer disappointed: I did not mind that she didn’t look at all like a buttercup – to me she was exotic enough.

  Straightening up, she looked over my head and stepped back. I knew she had seen Tridib, so I didn’t turn, for I wanted to watch her face when she greeted him. She did not recognise him at first – I could tell, because she smiled in a general, inclusive kind of way, as though she had understood he was with us and was smiling for the sake of politeness. Then her smile faded away and her eyes widened. Raising a hand, she pointed at him and said: You’re not, you’re not …

  I slipped away to one side so I would have a better view of the two of them.

  Tridib was nodding at her, shyly; I coul
d tell he was trying to smile. I didn’t blame him: the moment seemed so unbearably poignant I was sure in his place I would not have been able to smile either.

  I can still see what May did next as though it were a film running through my head in slow motion; I remember how the noise and bustle of that busy platform seemed to evaporate; I remember the face of a man standing behind the tea-stall, gaping, with his mouth wide open; I even remember my father’s eyes growing large with disbelief.

  She stepped up to Tridib and kissed him on both cheeks.

  A battery of whistles shrilled out from every corner of the platform; a chorus of voices shouted – Again! Again! Tridib’s spectacles misted over and he looked as though he would burst with embarrassment.

  Oh, I’m so sorry, May said. She was blushing. It’s obviously not the right thing to do here.

  No, no, Tridib stammered. Thank you very much …

  What are you staring at? my father snapped, waving his hands at the people who had gathered around us. Then he picked up May’s suitcase and shepherded us out of the station.

  On the way back to our house Tridib told us how long ago, in London, Mrs Price had called him into the house one morning when he was sitting out in the garden and told him to go into the drawing room and take a look at May. Puzzled, he had gone up to her cradle and looked in. When he saw her, his hair had stood on end and he’d almost wet his trousers. He had run out of the room screaming: she had turned into an insect, her face had gone all black and shiny and her mouth had grown into a long black snout, like a pig’s.

  Later they had explained, laughing, that it was just a gas mask – a baby’s gas mask, to protect her in case the Germans dropped gas bombs. But they hadn’t been able to convince him until they took it off and showed him her face, soft, pink and quite unchanged.

  I stole a glance at May and my heart warmed to her when I saw she was laughing.

  But May didn’t remember Tridib’s story; she was too excited to listen properly.