The Assassins

by Jeremy Trafford

  The garden boy was still watering the plants. He directed the jet of water joyfully at the shrubs and trees, and even a chirpy mynah bird, which flew away with a flash of splattered wings. He managed to soak a cantankerous fat dog, which sent the boy into a gurgle of laughter; the sodden dog made a hasty retreat, whimpering in complaint.

  Then Clare noticed another face above the hibiscus hedge at the end of the garden. She saw the eyes – their piercing gaze – and her heart pounded. She remembered those eyes. They were the same cold, resolute eyes of the boy on the motorbike, which she’d glimpsed behind the visor of the crash helmet. They were the eyes of the boy who’d tried to stab Tammy but had only succeeded in striking the window of the taxi. Tammy had explained him away as a watch thief when it was far more probable he was the boy assassin and he’d meant to kill him.

  And here he was. Or was he? Confused, Clare saw the eyes blink, the mouth move. It was as if the face became more ordinary. Had she been carried away by fear? Surely couldn’t be the same boy. She was falling prey to paranoia. People often stared at her in India, after all. Her fair European looks prompted many long, unflinching gazes that should not be mistaken for more than innocent, fascinated curiosity. Nothing more.

  She decided to act in order to dispel her fear and walked across the lawn towards him. The face seemed to lure her on. The eyes were mesmerising. She again recalled the eyes of the boy assassin, which had turned from fear and bemusement into ruthlessness. She felt herself sway, a heavy dizziness coming over her. The palm trees reeled. She felt herself about to faint but put up a fierce resistance to it, hating such weakness in herself.

  Her dizziness dissipated. She looked across at the hedge again. The face had gone. The boy must have slipped away.

  Turning her head in confusion, Clare gazed at the banana patch, at the glistening green boles of the banana plants with their delicate tube-like leaves. Then she turned her attention to the hibiscus flowers, with their veined, translucent petals. The garden was so luxuriant and beautiful, she thought, and yet that face came back to her with its terrible ambiguity. She wondered what force of human evil could transform a naive youth into a brutal killer. What desperation? What uncontrolled spirit of destruction? But then the memory faded. The face in her mind dissolved away.

  Taking a deep breath, Clare turned and began walking towards the house, feeling the whole experience might have been a hectic illusion, but this made her worry about herself. Was she imagining being stared menacingly? Was she hallucinating? As she climbed the steps to the veranda, she recalled with sudden sharpness what Tammy had so recently told her about Max and Narayan. She didn’t entirely believe him, but the anger the idea revived in her diminished her feelings of self-doubt. She would tell Tammy about the face she’d seen – or thought she’d seen – but she wouldn’t tell Max. Telling him would only weaken her in the stand she now intended to take. She would confront him with what Tammy had said about him and Narayan to discover whether or not it was the truth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As Clare went back into the house Max came forward to kiss her. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, concern in his voice. She evaded his kiss, turning her face away. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. I was worried.’

  ‘Were you, Max?’ she replied, a note of irony in her voice. ‘Well, how very flattering.’

  ‘Hey, why that tone?’ he asked, evidently hurt. ‘Look, I really am appreciative of how you’re handling things. How many women would have shown half your sympathy and understanding, or a fraction of your sensitivity and courage?’

  If only she had greater courage, she thought, and less sensitivity. She needed to be insensitive to the fears that still haunted her.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I wonder how far being the sensitive, sympathetic wife is getting me.’

  ‘You sound really sore with me. I love you more than ever! Don’t you see that?’

  ‘The way you love me frankly sounds quite selfish,’ Clare retorted. ‘You get the excitement, the highs and the romance, while I provide the emotional security. That’s it, isn’t it? The truth is, you want to keep our marriage of convenience going until Narayan chooses to make up his bloody mind about whether to live with you or not.’

  Max put out a hand urgently, on an impulse of denial.

  ‘That’s not so,’ he said. ‘Our marriage is absolutely vital to me. I’ve told you about his conscience over you.’

  ‘His conscience over me is fake,’ Clare said, her eyes flashing. ‘I wonder why even you don’t see through it.’

  ‘Damn it, Clare!’ said Max, frustrated. ‘It isn’t. He’s said he’d never be responsible for breaking up our marriage. Twice he’s tried to finish things between us.’

  ‘Christ, that old gesture of false renunciation. Is this his brilliant conscience or his wonderful hypocrisy?’

  ‘False? Hypocrisy?’ He seemed astounded at the words. Increasingly frustrated, he now exploded in sudden rage.

  ‘Damn you, Clare! Fuck you! There isn’t a trace of hypocrisy in him.’

  ‘Oh isn’t there?’ Clare shouted back. ‘How naïve you are, Max. How pathetically ingenuous! My God, you make me sick!’

  She turned and walked away, her outrage at its height. She was glad she’d hurt him to the point of fury. She couldn’t bear his making these excuses for Narayan and was revolted by his so-called conscience.

  ‘Don’t follow me,’ she said, not looking back.

  She went into the bathroom, where she proceeded to bathe Indian-style. She filled the small brass bowl and began pouring the water over the nape of her neck, the stream enclosing her body like a sheath. For a minute she continued, then reached for the towel and dried herself, surprised by the confidence she felt now that she’d spoken out.

  When she returned to their bedroom, Max had left. She went over to the mirror and looked at her reflection. There was a strained look in her eyes, but otherwise she quite liked what she saw. She’d never felt she was vain in any real sense; she was more concerned about her power to attract the man she loved. Surveying her breasts, she’d often imagined Max’s hands caressing them, a habit of hers when they were apart and she was in need of comfort and reassurance. She was proud of her breasts. She loved how he admired and fondled them. This time, though, the hands in her imagination were Tammy’s. She closed her eyes and dwelt on the image.

  She opened her eyes again and for a second saw surprise on the face reflected back at her. She turned away from the mirror, disturbed by the morphing of her daydream.

  As she set about getting dressed to go back downstairs, she worried about whether it had been Vijaya who’d seen her and Tammy kissing. She hoped it had been the garden boy instead, getting a quick voyeuristic thrill.

  In the hallway, Clare came face to face with Narayan. She’d known for some time that she had to confront him. After Tammy’s revelation, she knew she had to do so now.

  ‘You’re trying to destroy my marriage!’ she blurted out at once.

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said quietly, obviously shocked by her furious assertion.

  ‘You’re in love with Max.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he answered without hesitation, as if doing so enormously relieved him.

  Clare hated his admission but liked his honesty after all the falsehood and deception.

  ‘Tammy tells me you want to live with Max,’ she angrily went on. ‘Where the hell does that leave me?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told Tammy that,’ said Narayan.

  So it was true, Clare realised. Tammy hadn’t been lying to her.

  ‘It was just a pipe dream,’ Narayan insisted. ‘It’ll never happen. Max loves you far more than he loves me.’

  ‘Why’ve you encouraged him, behind my back?’ Clare asked, her voice sharp. ‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend? You’re twenty-six, for God’s sake. Why don’t you get yourself a wife?’

  ‘I will, in time.’ Narayan swallowed hard. ‘Look, I’m extremely fond of you. You mus
t know that,’ he said with obvious earnestness. ‘Yes, I love him, but I feel huge guilt about it. Do you know what it’s like to fall in love against your will?’ She thought about how she may have fallen in love with Tammy against her will, and the idea somewhat curbed her fury with Narayan.

  Tammy came into the hallway just then. It seemed obvious he’d overheard the confrontation and was uneasy that he’d been the cause of it by breaking Narayan’s confidence, and Clare felt embarrassed that Tammy had seen her in the middle of such an argument. The three went into the living room, and Narayan tactfully changed the subject.

  ‘Vijaya’s doing you a mutton curry,’ he said quietly, addressing Clare.

  ‘But you can’t have meat dishes just on our account,’ she said.

  ‘You are our guests,’ said Narayan in a conciliatory tone. ‘You gave me vegetarian dishes in Los Angeles, after all. Anyway, Tammy eats meat. He’s such a reprobate. Vijaya’s doing vegetarian food for us two, though. She’s in the kitchen now, cooking away like a mad thing, and better left alone.’

  The table was set with knives, forks and all things Western. In the middle, like a decorative centrepiece, was the inevitable bottle of whisky. This time, Clare looked somewhat askance at it. So did Max when he saw the bottle. Maria was already there. She grinned at Clare, obviously in fond anticipation of the meal.

  Narayan wagged his head very gently, beckoning them to sit. It was strange how he’d reverted to his Indian gestures, and even lost his slight American accent. He smiled at Clare as he led her to the table. His smile exasperated her, although she knew it was his way of apologising. He couldn’t express his regret any further with the others present in the room, so he was attempting to do so with his relentlessly sweet manners.

  Clare sat at the table and gazed at all these foreign objects. Could the bottle of whisky, potentially so lethal in Narayan’s eyes, and the imminent mutton curry, so fleshy and unholy, be tokens of his attempt at reparation? And what reparation could she make to Vijaya if it had been she who’d seen them kissing? Her recollection of accepting Tammy’s kiss, whatever her initial reluctance, made her feel less solidly assured about acting towards Narayan with such indignant fury.

  Eventually Vijaya entered the room, bearing a large dish. She set it on the table and returned to the kitchen to fetch further dishes: rice, dhal, onion bhajis, leathery strips of dried fish – all the elaborate accompaniments of an Indian meal. Clare watched Vijaya’s face but couldn’t read anything untoward in her expression.

  Courteous and competent, Vijaya served the curry.

  ‘I’ve practised cooking this dish in Kolkata,’ she said. ‘Some of my old relatives are given to eating meat occasionally. Odd as the practice is, at least the sheep aren’t cruelly raised. I’ve no doubt one could get used to the peculiar, greasy smell of it. You know, a traditional wife doesn’t even eat with her husband. She crouches on the floor and serves him first.’

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ said Maria. ‘How can women tolerate it?’

  ‘Yes, the wife eats only after he has stuffed himself,’ Vijaya went on. ‘It’s demeaning not just for the women but for the men as well, who must feel so pampered and piggish.’

  ‘It’s demeaning for everyone,’ Tammy insisted. ‘It still goes on in backward areas. I’ve been at a meal where the wife crouched on the floor until her self-satisfied, fat husband had gorged himself stupid. She ate only what he had left.’

  ‘The traditional ideal of Indian womanhood is appalling,’ said Vijaya. ‘The level of marital oppression is disgraceful.’

  ‘Things are getting better for women, thank God,’ Tammy said.

  ‘To some extent,’ Vijaya answered. ‘But there’s all this sexual harassment going on, and people don’t take it seriously enough. Harassment often leads to rape, and there’s more rape than ever in our cities. I’ve heard men say raped women ask for it. Victims internalise the shame because of such male attitudes. A girl was recently sexually attacked, and not one man came to help her.’

  ‘We saw her on television,’ Narayan added. ‘Her face was badly bruised. She said she felt degraded and so no one would want to marry her now, when the shame and degradation should be felt only by the rapist.’

  ‘Yes, a man with any decency should be proud to marry her,’ said Vijaya. ‘In the big cities, women are afraid to go out at night. They’re expected to stay at home, ministering to the vanity of their menfolk – cooking, sweeping and slaving away. The men want to be big shots, and boss women around. Boys see how women are treated in the home and then follow the bad example set them. Women and men should be seen as completely equal right from the start.’

  She paused then, relenting slightly, and added with a trace of humour, ‘Well, when I get married, whomever my husband will be, if anyone at all is crouching on the floor and eating last, that very stupid person won’t be me.’

  Everyone laughed, if uneasily. Clare saw Tammy was impressed, and yet a slight perplexity had touched him. That little phrase – whomever my husband will be – had been casually, almost jokingly, uttered, but it seemed apparent to Clare that there was a challenge in it. Vijaya was stronger and more modern than Tammy had assumed.

  The meal flowed on, Maria complaining that the food was alarmingly delicious.

  ‘I’ve put on so much weight since coming out to India,’ she moaned. ‘Italy was bad enough for my figure, with all its succulent pasta and irresistible ice cream, all slyly thrust upon me just when my defences had been momentarily lowered. How inconsiderate you are, Vijaya, dear. If only you’d taken the trouble to cook something really horrible, I might’ve resisted the temptation better.’

  Tammy smiled at Maria’s joke and then spoke to Vijaya.

  ‘Women in modern India are now far more emancipated. There are women judges, academics, journalists and politicians.’

  ‘They’re the exceptions,’ Vijaya argued back. ‘I’m talking of the generality of women, unqualified and unheard.’

  Having made her point, she fell silent. Clare suspected what was on her mind and dreaded finding out for certain.

  At last Vijaya began to clear the table. Tammy made a point of helping her, awkwardly, as if not at all accustomed to it. Clare helped Vijaya as well, carrying some of the plates into the kitchen. The two women made a couple of journeys each until the remains of the mutton curry had been cleared away and the inoffensive fruit set out.

  Eventually, Clare and Vijaya were alone in the kitchen. Vijaya stood by the sink in silence, her face averted.

  ‘Will you play the sitar for us later?’ Clare asked, mainly to break the silence. ‘Please, Vijaya. I love to hear you play.’

  Vijaya turned to face her. She spoke with vehemence, her mouth trembling.

  ‘What’s the matter between you and your husband?’

  Clare impulsively leant forward to take her hand, but Vijaya snatched it away.

  ‘You with your dreadful Western ways,’ she said. ‘Why do you come out here, you people, and cause us such unhappiness?’

  ‘That’s unfair. I’m sorry, but I never started anything.’

  ‘You’ve been our friends. We liked you so much. You’ve lived with us in our house, our parents’ house. You’ve had enjoyed our hospitality; you’ve even had our present. And now? Now you destroy everything for me.’

  ‘I never started it,’ Clare repeated. ‘I’m sorry, Vijaya, but I won’t accept this. I like Tammy very much, but I tell you I’ve resisted him repeatedly.’

  Clare hated herself for saying that because Vijaya’s look wasn’t one of disbelief; the shaking of her shoulders revealed grief instead of anger.

  Clare’s defensiveness gave way to pity.

  Vijaya lifted her head, her face contorted with pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. Clare reached out, putting her hand on Vijaya’s shoulder.

  ‘Look,’ Clare said, ‘there’s nothing between us. I’m still very much in love with Max, and anything you saw today was nothing but a foolish little accid
ent.’

  Maria entered the kitchen and stood staring, astonished. Clare was still touching the weeping Vijaya, but now she noticed, over Vijaya’s shoulder, that someone was standing by the garden gate, beside a motorbike, looking up at the house. She saw his face, but it was not the face that had previously haunted her. It seemed more like that of the plump man with the unkempt moustache. As Vijaya recovered her composure, Clare recalled the flick-knife the man had drawn on Max, then his attempt to stab at Tammy, an attempt that had been thwarted by that tall woman, her blood-red betel juice staining his white shirt.

  The accomplice, if that was what he was, turned his gaze towards the garden. He made a beckoning gesture, mounting his motorbike as a boy walked slowly towards him. It was surely the boy who’d gazed at Clare over the hibiscus hedge. The man revved the bike’s engine, coaxing the boy to climb on the pillion seat. He seemed reluctant at first. The man continued humouring him, affectionately taking him by the arm, and the boy acquiesced. The pair rode off, the boy now laughing, clinging to his companion. So it was the two of them, Clare now knew for sure. She had to warn Tammy as soon as possible.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ Narayan said to everyone except Vijaya, who had gone upstairs. Clare and Maria were back in the dining room. ‘Come on, you ladies, where are your romantic feelings?’ he teased. ‘Wasting the beautiful night, sitting indoors. All this drink, smoke and savage wolfing down of animal flesh… it’s all so decadent.’

  He waved his hands in the air, as if humorously wafting away all the unholy odours defiling the purity of his beloved ideal of Hindustan.

  ‘Guzzling this wasteful form of protein and inhaling the smoke of these inedible plants. It’s all so unecological! Now if we go outside, where there are breezes from the sea and the scent of jasmine, we might even imagine ourselves in Los Angeles.’

  ‘God forbid!’ cried Maria, defiantly lighting a cigarette. ‘You and your barbarous dream city. Surely it’s the ultimate in savagery and decadence. How come an innocent Indian like you got so hooked on wasteful and wicked, polluted old LA?’