The house bustled busily about us as we went through the kitchen and up the rear staircase. It was clear what was happening. The master of the household had returned. Ameera treated me just as though I were Leo, and the rest of the staff took their cue from her. Everywhere I heard polite Bengali greetings, and Ameera replied to them. She seemed to feel that Leo, for his own purposes, was choosing to speak only English, and she behaved as though it were some kind of test. She had already told me, a little proudly, that for the past six months she had been practicing English speech every day — as I had told her to.
By eleven o’clock I had seen all of the house that a lightning tour could provide, said goodnight to Chatterji (still puzzled and obeisant) and to Ameera, and was making a closer examination of Leo’s bedroom. It was a huge, north-facing cavern on the second floor, with one small window that looked out over the high wall to the city beyond. Shaving equipment, towels and liquid soaps, enough for an army, were set out by a massive marble washstand, and clean clothes that smelled strongly of camphor were draped over wooden hangers. They were street clothes, and I could find no pajamas or other night attire. The room had one weak light over by the door, and another above the great bed. I could see evidence of Leo’s taste in some of the fittings and in the bookcases that filled the headboard and much of the wall space. But nowhere could I find one book or paper in English, or any sign of files or recording system.
So where did Leo keep his paperwork? I yawned, and decided that had to be a question for the next morning. I washed, turned off the lights, and climbed naked into bed. It was warm in the room, and I lay covered by a single cotton sheet that smelled pleasantly of lemon and reminded me of my childhood back home in the north of England .
The headache that had been creeping up on me for the past couple of days — a mild foretaste of things to come — pushed at me, like an itch behind my eyes, and I was glad to rest my head on the pillow. Even when I fell asleep the ache remained, following me into an uneasy dream, I found myself walking through a harsh, sunlit land, all yellows and crude reds, where small lizards sunned themselves on baking rocks and fled before me as I approached. And even in sleep, I knew I was not in India .
The door of the room opened. I was hazily aware of it, wondering what was happening to throw a spear of light in across the bed. I came more fully awake with the soft rustle of clothing, dropping to the hardwood floor. After a few seconds of silence I felt hands on my shoulders and the back of my neck. I tensed and almost cried out, then suddenly relaxed as the fingers dug in to massage my tired muscles and work out their tension and fatigue.
“Leo-yo.” It was a soft breath in my ear, smelling of mint and anise. I moved to sit up, then lay back beneath the pressure of her hand on my chest. Her gentle touch moved lower, exploring, pressing and rubbing and caressing.
“Lie still.” There was a fragrance of oils and powder as she slipped back the sheet and moved in beside me. She slid her body across mine. She was shapely and perfumed and had a skin as soft as a peach. There were a few gentle words to me in Bengali, then she moved on to me in total silence. For a long time there was only the sound of our breathing. Ameera was in control, leading me and following me irresistibly to a sweet climax.
Perhaps I should have felt guilty, a triple cheat. I was unfaithful to Tess, taking Ameera under false pretenses, and stealing Leo’s woman, all at the same time. I did feel uncomfortable — later. But as Ameera taught me something about the East that until then I had only read about, I could not feel anything but pleasure.
Her enjoyment seemed as intense as mine. Later we lay together, drowsy in companionable darkness, until she moved her hands to rub again at the muscles in my shoulders, lulling me. Again I felt her hands move all over me, caressing, renewing their acquaintance with my body, learning what her eyes could not tell her, And then, when I was very close to sleep, I heard a sound that jerked me back to wakefulness.
Ameera was weeping in the darkness, quiet and heartbroken. I could hear her trying to choke off her sobs as she moved her body away from me.
“What’s wrong?” I sat up, suddenly convinced that I had committed a terrible social blunder. It was impossible to believe that I had misread the signals and forced myself on an unwilling partner. But why else would she weep?
“I did not believe you,” she said at last. “You told me, and I did not believe. But it is true. You are not Leo. You are the brother.”
She had moved away from the bed and was reaching down to pick up her gown. I was sitting up, but I was naked and in the darkness and the unfamiliar room I had no idea where my clothes were. Before I could move she was at the door, slipping away from me.
As the door closed behind her all my old doubts and insecurities came flooding back. “Frozen Englishman,” Leo had said to me once, mocking me as we stood on the beach. “It’s the cold weather, you’ve got no blood in your veins. Come on out to L.A. , and maybe you’ll learn the right way to make love to a girl.”
He had been joking, but it still hurt — because I believed it.
For half an hour I lay on the bed, too depressed even to turn on a light. My headache was back, worse than ever. My thoughts went again and again over the same question: What had I done, what ineptitude so blatant that it would convince someone who wanted to believe I was Leo that I must be someone else? In our lovemaking we had not even spoken to each other. What had I done wrong?
I was still in my narcissistic fit of misery and self-pity when the door opened again. Bare feet came padding across the floor, and the bed moved as someone placed their weight on its edge.
“Here.” Ameera’s voice was only a sad whisper. “Take this. It is yours.” She pressed a sheet of paper into my hand.
“What is it?” The darkness was total. I had the wild idea that maybe this was the document I sought, the thing that told me what Leo had been doing here in India .
“I do not know,” she said. “Leo gave it to us and told us to keep it in case some day he did not come back. I cannot see, and Chatterji cannot read the English. He says it has writing in English. You are the brother. It tells you what must be done now.”
The sheet of paper seemed to burn in my grasp. I had to get to a light, to see what it said — but even more urgent than that, I had to know something else.
“Ameera?”
“Yes?” Her voice was dull and unhappy.
“I’m sorry. For what I did. I’m sorry that I wasn’t…” It was hard to say.
“Wasn’t?” Her voice was puzzled, a couple of feet away from me on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry you weren’t happy. I’m sorry that I failed you… when we made love.” My voice choked in my throat. “I mean, you knew I wasn’t Leo. I’m sorry for what it was I did wrong.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounded different, as though she had turned her head away. “No, it was not that. Not when we loved. It was…” Her voice faltered. “It was afterwards, when we were lying here. And I touched you. I knew then. But I do not know how to say…”
I felt the bed move as she stood up, and heard her bare feet as she moved towards the door.
“I cannot say it,"’ she said again, and her voice sounded as though she was weeping into her gown.
“Why not? Please tell me, whatever it was.”
“I cannot. I do not know the word — the English word. But I knew you were not Leo afterwards, when I touched you — there.”
“Touched me?” She had touched me all over.
“Yes. He was — cut. You are not cut. I knew it then, as soon as I touched you.”
The door opened and I saw a swirl of white as she glided through and out of the room.
Cut? Operation scars? I had plenty of those, but we’d had no operations, either of us, before the final crash. So what on earth was Ameera talking about?
I lay back in the bed, and suddenly understood. A strange mixture of emotions flooded over me — relief, amusement, grief, and guilt. Ameera was quite accurate. Leo h
ad been cut. Like most American males, but unlike me, he was circumcised. Only in unusual circumstances would anyone be able to use that as a method of telling us apart.
The sheet of paper was still clutched in my hand. I wanted to read it at once, to know what it would tell me. But I was gripped by powerful and uncontrollable emotions. If I am honest, I have to say that my strongest feeling was relief. My delicate male ego had survived a major trauma. Now it was more than I could do to keep my eyes open. The headache was creeping back, pulling a band of tightness across my forehead, and my brain felt numbed. Tomorrow. I would read the paper tomorrow.
In less than a minute I was asleep. And, human sexuality being what it is, I had wildly erotic dreams — of Tess. We were making love in the middle of the Maidan, ignored by the hundreds of passers-by who scurried through the midday heat on their urgent but inscrutable Calcutta business.
- 10 -
I slept late and woke to a silent house. The clothes set out by my bed fitted perfectly — no surprise there, they obviously belonged to Leo. Downstairs there was no sign of Ameera or of the wizened Chatterji, but the table was set in the dining room and a full buffet breakfast laid out in warmed chafing dishes on the long sideboard. As I helped myself, one of the servants peeked in through the door that led to the kitchen, and a minute or so later he was back with Royal Worcester teapot and coffeepot.
Whatever I thought of Leo’s habits in India , there was no denying that he had lived like a king here. I couldn’t help comparing this with my own travel experiences, a dreary succession of cramped hotel rooms and warmed-over meals.
As I ate boiled guinea fowl eggs and buttered toast I pondered again the document that Ameera had left me in the middle of the night. My first look, the moment that I awoke, had been doubly unrewarding. My eyes refused to focus properly, and the blurred and fuzzed image that I could see seemed to be mostly random numbers and letters. The symptoms were not a new problem — I’d encountered the same thing in the hospital — but Sir Westcott had given me stern instructions on what I had to do when it happened. No reading or concentrated eye work until the effects wore off. I was forced to sit there and wait, trying to swallow my impatience.
The food seemed to help. As I drank Darjeeling tea from a delicate porcelain cup, I took another look at the paper. Ameera had said that it was intended for me, but I felt sure she was wrong. For one thing, many of the words were written in an unfamiliar script, either Hindustani or more likely Arabic. Underneath a first paragraph of that came the cryptic “CBC, sdb 33226; Code: Redondo Beach .” After that, the only words of intelligible English: ” 35 Amble Place , Middlesbrough , England .”
My address, for the flat I kept in north Yorkshire . It was the first tie that I could relate definitely to me. For the rest, I had to have help.
The house had no telephone, or at least not one that I could find. I went outside. After a couple of false starts, my arm-waving and shouts of “Taxi-taxi” got through to the man at the little gate house. He nodded and shouted to a boy of about ten who was leaning against the wall outside the house. The lad ran off along the street and trotted back a couple of minutes later leading the way for an old blue Peugeot and its turbanned driver.
“Grand Hotel? Chowringhi?” I said.
A nod, a grin, and we were off at a sedate crawl along the crowded streets. As we chugged along it occurred to me that I would have trouble finding the house again without assistance. I handled that in the only safe way I could think of — I didn’t pay the driver when I went inside the hotel, but left instructions with the English-speaking Head Porter that I might be in my room for quite a while, and if necessary he should make sure that the driver had a meal at my expense while he waited for me.
Chandra, thank Heaven, was in his office. Most of his days were spent at one or other of the family jute factories north of the city, and running him to earth there might have been difficult. He responded to my call for help with typical courtesy. I couldn’t tell how inconvenient my request might be. All he would say was, “I will come at once.”
While he was on the way I packed my cases in five minutes, checked out of my room in another three, and paced the lobby impatiently until he appeared. When he arrived I was trembling and my head was hurting like hell again, but Chandra was as unflappable as ever.
He took the page from me and studied it in silence for a couple of minutes. When he looked up his smooth face was puzzled.
“Can you understand it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The words? Certainly. But before I can tell what they mean I think we ought to take a look at this.” He tapped the sheet where the coded message appeared. “This part is clear enough. ‘CBC’ is the Central Bank of Calcutta , and I imagine this is simply the number of the Safety Deposit Box, and the code that we need to access it.”
“And the other messages?”
“I do not know about the English address. But the message here says that in the absence of Mr. Singh, household decisions are all to be made by Ameera, and that all bills are to be sent to the Central Bank of Calcutta for payment.” Chandra arched an eyebrow at me. “Do you know of the woman Ameera?”
“Yes.” It seemed to be time to tell Chandra more about everything, if he had time to listen. “Can you get what is in this safety deposit box?”
“I don’t see why not. But what am I to do with it?”
“Bring it with you to a house near here. The driver outside can give you directions how to get to it.”
Chandra looked at me again, but apparently decided to let further questions wait. We parted, and as the driver puttered his way back to the house I wondered again what I was going to do next. No matter what was in Leo’s safety deposit, I couldn’t see how it would take me any closer to the mystery of T.P. or the Belur Package.
Ameera was still missing. I spent the time until Chandra arrived looking again at the papers in the study, and confirming my intent to call Sir Westcott as soon as I could. Something was worse inside my head, and I had to know what it was.
I went upstairs to the bedroom and ran cold water over my hands and forehead. When I came down again Chandra was there, talking rapidly in Bengali to Chatterji. He had a package of papers under his arm.
“I think we must talk in private,” he said, and I led the way through to the study. His look suggested that I had to provide some explanations. I poured a brandy for each of us — Chandra, like me, had a good musician’s digestion — then told him everything I knew. His look changed slowly from skepticism to intrigue.
“You are two people now? Lionel and Leo? It is a tale from Hindu myth, Parmara and Peruma.” Chandra tapped the package he was holding. “Leo has a sense of humor, too. Did you know that this house is owned by a Mr. Singh?”
“Chatterji — the man you were talking to — called me Singh when first he saw me.”
“That was Leo’s joke. ‘Singh’ means ‘lion’ — just the same as Leo and Lionel do. This was Leo’s house, and according to these papers, you now own it and all its contents.” Chandra gave me an odd look. “All its contents. And that means you now have the responsibility for looking after them. Goods and people.”
“People! How many people? This house seems to be full of them.”
“Eight, according to Chatterji.” Chandra tapped the package again. “If you have worries about the cost of supporting them, this will reassure you. The assets that ‘Mr. Singh’ holds in the Central Bank of Calcutta are considerable. But there is one other complication.”
Chandra paused, and the look on his face told me I wouldn’t like what was coming.
“I don’t see how it could get much more complicated,” I said. “Eight servants and a house — I’ve never owned as much as a dog kennel before.”
He coughed. “Perhaps not. How much do you know of the Code of Manu — the forms of marriage ceremony that are practiced here?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is the old code that enumerates the permit
ted forms of marriage. There were eight of them, but these days only two are still in use. There is the Brahma, the approved form, and there is the Asura, which is a form of purchase of the bride by the bridegroom. It has been officially banned, but is still in use. These documents show that your brother, under the name of Singh, went through the Asura form of ceremony with a woman who was brought here from Bihar .”
I knew what was coming.
“Ameera?”
“That is correct.” Chandra didn’t look either surprised or shocked. “This may be a complication.”
I admired his gift for understatement. It seemed like a time for another brandy, though I was still not sure what drink might do to my aching head.
“Any other bombshells in that package? We might as well get the whole thing over at once.”
“No bombshell, but it seems that your brother went to extraordinary measures to keep this house and his financial affairs in this city a secret. There are bank statements here, both deposits and withdrawals, but the deposits are always money orders rather than checks, and the withdrawals are always via another local bank — hard to trace back here. What do you think your brother was doing?”
What indeed? I shook my head, then wished I hadn’t. “That’s what I’m here to find out — if I can. These other things, the house and Ameera, they certainly make things more difficult. Is there anything else at all in that package? So far I’ve heard nothing but trouble.”
“A list.” Chandra puffed out his full cheeks. “It is of places and people, but they mean nothing to me. I looked again when you told me of the men who pursued your brother, but I see none of their names here. Perhaps you will be able to find some clue that I cannot see.”
My Brother Page 12
