The Indian Clerk

by David Leavitt

  Ramanujan merely smiles. “The scenery was splendid,” he says— yet another of the department store replies.

  A visit to the toilet, followed by a pint in a nearby pub, restores Hardy's composure a bit. By now the sun is setting, and the group heads off—on foot this time, thank God—to the manor. A great lawn sweeps away from the house, toward a tennis court on which a makeshift stage has been erected, complete with footlights. Some members of the audience, mostly old women, sit in folding chairs, while others picnic in groups—and indeed, not to his surprise, Hardy now discovers that Alice, too, has brought a picnic, a gallimaufry of her vegetarian horrors, which she proceeds to lay out on a cloth of faded red ticking. Vigorously she divvies up the goods, passing a plate of something stuffed with something else to Mr. Allenby, who gazes at it with a stunned expression. Another plate she hands to Hardy. As he examines its contents, he takes in, as if from a great distance, fragments of talk about Shakespeare, Alice's charity, Vauxhalls versus Jowetts. What a strain it must be, all this effort to direct the conversation away from the subject it yearns for, like trying to hold a magnet away from a pole! And why are they bothering? Why are they even here?

  He is just starting to butter a piece of bread—the only eatable there he can stomach—when he hears his name being called. He looks up. Harry Norton is striding toward him, accompanied by Sheppard, Taylor, Keynes, and, lingering a few paces behind, Count Békássy.

  Hardy stands. Crumbs drop from his trousers to the grass. Later he will reflect grimly that there is something inevitable about coincidences of this kind. Far from negating randomness, they confirm it. Hence 331, 3331, 33331, 333331, and 3333331 are prime, but 33333331 is not.

  “Hello, Hardy,” Norton says. “And what on earth brings you to these parts?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “We've come to see Bliss, of course. Oh, sorry if we're interrupting—”

  “Bliss?”

  “You know Bliss.” Norton leans closer. “The new recruit. He's Caliban and his brother's Ferdinand. We're here to look on with Békássy as his boy has his moment in the limelight. Isn't that right, Feri?”

  Békássy, whose back Keynes is now touching, nods.

  “But I had no idea Bliss was in the play,” Hardy says. “We came because Mrs. Neville … Forgive me. May I present Mr. Norton? Mrs. Neville …”

  Oh, the horror of introductions! As Hardy rattles out the names, how-do-you-do's cross like swords; the requisite “Won't you join us?” is followed by the requisite “We couldn't possibly …” “But there's plenty to eat.” “Well, if you're sure …” “Of course. Do sit down.”

  And then, before Hardy knows what's happening, space is being cleared; a second picnic cloth, this one blue, is being laid out. The quadrants touching. Sheppard, recklessly abandoning any pretense of discretion, points at Ramanujan and whispers to Taylor, who gapes. His hair looks even whiter in the dusk light than it does in his rooms at King's. And what does Ramanujan make of these curious men? Does he take Sheppard's pointing as a signal of his celebrity (“the Hindoo calculator”) or of his obvious foreignness? The duskiness of his skin? The squatness of his nose?

  Plates are moved out of the way. With his terrible inquisitive gusto, Sheppard sidles up to Ramanujan, asking him the usual questions— how is he settling in, is he happy at Trinity—but also ones of a decidedly more Apostolic nature, such as, “Speaking as a Hindu, do you believe Heaven can accommodate worshippers of your Gods as well as of our God?”

  “There are many Christians in India,” Ramanujan says. “And

  Muslims. Generally speaking, the adherents respect one another's beliefs, though of course some conflict is inevitable.” (Answer purchased at Spencer's, price 1 rupee.)

  “Naturally, naturally. Still, the Hindus must have feelings on the matter, when for instance they see Christians entering a church, or Jews a synagogue.”

  “It is my personal view that all religions are more or less equally true.”

  “Really?” Keynes says. “How fascinating. A pity McTaggart isn't here.” He and Sheppard are now peering at Ramanujan assessingly, as if he's an embryo. Is he an embryo? Is all this a set-up? In which case, why hasn't Hardy been informed? And who is the father?

  Dusk is falling. Footlights flash, the crowd quiets, the play begins. From the darkness behind the stage, young Bliss emerges, his good looks set off, oddly enough, by the stoop he affects, the rags and smears of grease paint on his face. Not a bad Caliban, all told. Hardy closes his eyes as Bliss utters some lines that Gaye loved especially:

  When thou carnest first,

  Thou strok'dst me and mad'st much of me; wouldst give me

  Water with berries in't, and teach me how

  To name the bigger light, and how the less,

  That burn by day and night: and then I lov'd thee

  And show'd thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,

  The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile:

  Cursed be I that did so!

  Hardy turns to look at Békássy. Tears glisten beneath those heavy Hussar lids. So this is what it's like, then, true love or comradeship or what have you, between men! What Hardy thought he knew with Gaye; what sometimes he still dreams of knowing. And will he ever know it again? Perhaps because the world's about to end, that old yearning for romance, for passion, seems to have reawakened in him; he looks, haltingly, about him, wondering if there's anyone here tonight, anyone at all …

  Then the first act ends. Norton gets up to smoke, and Hardy follows him. They stand huddled together, out of earshot of the picnickers.

  “Honestly, Harry,” Hardy says, “I had no idea about Bliss. Our being here is pure coincidence.”

  “Very like you, hiding your lights under a bushel,” Norton says. “But really, you should have at least introduced him to me. Sometimes I think you forget I'm a mathematician.”

  “Only because you forget yourself.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It's just that trying to do the degree nearly drove me to bedlam.”

  “Sheppard certainly seems keen to get to know him.”

  “Sheppard is doomed to be a conversationalist.” Norton blows out smoke.

  They are quiet for a moment, and then Norton says, “Beastly thing, this war, isn't it?”

  Hardy almost laughs. After so much strained evasion of the topic, to hear it mentioned straight on—and so casually!—comes as a relief.

  “I'm surprised Keynes could get away, what with his work at the Treasury.”

  “It was for Békássy's sake.”

  “How so?”

  “Haven't you heard? He's going back to Hungary to join the army. To fight against Russia. Supposedly we'll be at war with Hungary next week, so if he doesn't get out before that, he'll be interned. Of course, Keynes tried desperately to talk him out of it, but Feri wouldn't hear of it. So now Keynes has agreed to pay his passage, since the banks are closed, and Feri can't get his own money. But he's wretched about the whole thing. We all are.”

  “And Bliss?”

  “He says he's signing up, too. Following Rupert Brooke's lead. Rather romantic, isn't it, the lovers fighting on opposite sides? We brought Feri down tonight because, well, really, it's his last chance to see Bliss before he goes off.”

  Hardy looks toward the house, where presumably the actors have set up their dressing room. Békássy is emerging from a side door.

  “How very noble,” Norton says.

  “What? That they're going off to die?”

  “No, that they're going off to defend their respective fatherlands.”

  “I despise this war. I can't believe every intelligent human being doesn't despise this war.”

  “Well, from what Keynes tells me, Moore hasn't made his mind up yet one way or the other. And McTaggart's already declared himself a rabid anti-German.”

  “This from the man who wrote ‘Violets or Orange-Blossom?’”

  “Still, you've got to admit th
e Huns are proving to be rather brutal. A cold military machine. I've read they're bayoneting children.”

  “That's just propaganda.”

  “It wouldn't surprise me. You know, Nietzsche and the whole übermenscb business. Not every German's a Goethe, Hardy.”

  “They're defending their interests. They're afraid of Russia, just as we're afraid of them. The dreaded German Navy. Everyone's afraid, everyone's acting in anticipation of someone else acting in anticipation of someone else acting in anticipation.”

  “Like Russell's infinite regress.”

  “Exactly.”

  The footlights flash, indicating the end of the interval.

  “We should be getting back,” Norton says. “Oh—are you stopping the night?”

  Hardy nods. “The Nevilles are staying with her cousin. The rest of us are putting up in some inn. Knighton, I think.” He blows out smoke. “And you?”

  “Some friend of the squitter-squatter's. At least that's where Shep-pard and Keynes and the squitter and I are headed. Maybe I'll finally get a look at the three. Tristan and Isolde, who knows?” Norton lowers his eyelids. “Isn't it a pity we can't … well …”

  But the second act is about to begin. They stub out their cigarettes, then return to the lawn to watch the rest of the play. Which goes on. And on. All told, the slowest performance of The Tempest through which Hardy has ever been obliged to sit. By the time it's over, his legs have fallen asleep under him. But then he looks at his watch and sees that only two hours have passed. In fact the performance went rather swiftly.

  And then, perhaps even more anguishing to him than the introductions, the farewells begin. Ramanujan could probably produce an equation to calculate T, the amount of time it takes before everyone finally leaves, based on P, the number of people present, and I, the interruption variable, which of course multiplies the length of time required for each goodbye by an uncertain quantity. And oh, the words!—So charmed… We must meet again soon…Fascinating to have learned of your motor club—endless words before, finally, Norton kisses Alice's cheek, and Littlewood shakes Keynes's hand, and Békássy rushes off toward the house to find Bliss, with whom he will no doubt soon be escaping into the shadows of the summer night, the forest and its dark canopy.

  At last it's over. Hardy climbs into Allenby's beastly car, which carries him and Littlewood to Knighton, to the George & Dragon Inn, where they learn that an error has been made; instead of reserving five rooms, as Alice requested, the innkeeper has put aside only two. Indeed, the inn doesn't even have five rooms! One room has one double bed; Eddie Neville and Allenby cheerfully agree to share it. As for the other: “There are two large beds, sir,” the innkeeper tells Hardy. “Certainly big enough for the three gentlemen.”

  “Doesn't bother me,” Littlewood says.

  Of course it doesn't! And Ramanujan? His expression is impenetrable. Maybe he doesn't care. Back at home in India, don't they sleep willy-nilly, all over the floor?

  And so the innkeeper, carrying a candle, leads them up to the room, which is in the attic, spartan and frowsty, the two big beds arranged opposite each other, one against the north and the other against the south wall. There is no electric light. Instead the candle that the innkeeper sets on the mantel imparts to the room its warm, flickering glow.

  Littlewood stretches his arms. “Well, that was a thoroughly draining entertainment,” he says, stripping off his waistcoat. “I don't know about you chaps, but I'm knackered.”

  At which, with the insouciance for which he is famous, he yanks off his clothes, flings back the covers of one of the beds, and lies down. No thought, apparently, of washing. “Goodnight,” he says, and within seconds he is snoring.

  Hardy and Ramanujan are left, for all intents and purposes, alone. They look at each other.

  “I believe the bathroom is downstairs,” Hardy says.

  “Thank you,” Ramanujan replies. He opens his little valise and removes from it a toiletry kit and a pair of pyjamas. Bearing these with him, he opens the bedroom door and tiptoes out.

  Hardy blows out breath. Now he has time to visit the water closet and change—quickly, surreptitiously—into his own pyjamas. Having done so, he surveys the two beds, one tidy, the other thrown into disarray by Littlewood's splayed and naked form. Littlewood has pushed the covers down to just below his navel. For a moment, Hardy watches the expansion and compression of his diaphragm, notes the sparse hairs on his chest … Oh, which bed to climb into? If he gets into the bed with Littlewood, he won't sleep a wink. But if he gets into the empty bed, he'll merely be passing the burden of choice on to Ramanujan. And what will Ramanujan do?

  Then he hears a door open somewhere—the bathroom door below, perhaps—followed by footsteps on the stairs.

  Almost without thought, he makes his choice. He climbs into the empty bed.

  Five minutes pass. He counts them. The door to the room opens and shuts again. He hears the floorboards creaking under bare feet. Then there is a moment of stillness, before Ramanujan blows—hard—and Hardy both hears and smells the guttering of the candle. Darkness smothers the room. He feels the heft of another body pressing down on the mattress, which tilts away from him. Sheets and blankets tighten around his rib cage. He smells wool, the outdoors—and then he realizes what has happened. Ramanujan has not actually got into the bed; he's only got onto it. He is sleeping atop the bedspread and sheets and blanket, with his coat draped over his torso.

  Well, how strange! Hardy hardly knows how to interpret that. And yet, he must confess, he likes the way that, thanks to Ramanujan's weight, the sheets pull away from him, and push down on him, and envelop him. It's like being cocooned.

  He falls asleep, and wakes what seems an instant later to see dawn light coming through the window.

  “Harold,” a voice says—Ramanujan's? But no. It's only Gaye.

  He sits on the edge of the bed. “Well, look at you,” he says. “Quite a night, wasn't it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Drama off the stage as well as on. I mean, it's the sort of thing Shakespeare should have written, and might have written, though not for performance, of course. You know, soldier lovers divided by war. Like something out of Greek poetry.”

  “You're the classicist.”

  “I've always loved The Tempest.” Gaye takes what appears to be a file out of his pocket. “And Bliss made a perfectly serviceable Caliban, don't you think? Not brilliant but … serviceable.”

  “Are you filing your nails?”

  “Do a dead man's nails grow? I'm sure you remember what I always used to say, you have to see Shakespeare performed to really grasp him. And what poetry! Listen.” He puts his hand to his diaphragm. “‘And then I lov'd thee, and show'd thee all the qualities o’ th' isle…’ Much like you've shown your Indian friend the qualities of the isle, Harold. ‘The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren places, and fertile …’ And then at the end, the brutal envoi: ‘Cursed be I that did so!’ It undoes everything that comes before. Because what Caliban recognizes is that he has loved, which is noble, but because he's loved, he's lost the thing that matters most to him. ‘Cursed be I that did so!’”

  Hardy almost sits up. He almost starts to argue. But he knows Gaye won't be there to hear him.

  Just like him to leave him like that, the words hanging, and no opportunity, ever, to reply.

  3

  END OF AUGUST. Not far from the Nevilles' house, the Third Battalion of the Rifle Brigade (Irish) has encamped on Midsummer Common. At seven Alice wakes to the sound of their training exercises, the officer in charge shouting out his orders in a brogue. Eric is already gone, at his study in the college. She breakfasts with Ethel, who shows her a postcard that her son has sent her from Woolwich Arsenal. He is in the Territorials. All morning long, Ethel bangs pots in the kitchen, while Alice sits by the dining room window, looking out at the soldiers, waiting—for what? For the world to end? For Ramanujan to visit?

  He arrives just after eleven. Un
announced. When she hears the knock at the door, she composes herself on the piano bench and waits for Ethel to bring him in. She doesn't want him to see how glad she is to see him, or how glad she is that Eric is away. The jigsaw puzzle sits where he left it. Much to Ethel's annoyance (and Eric's amusement) she will not hear of it being dismantled. She serves him coffee—she has taught Ethel to boil the milk in the Madrasi way—and then they sit together at the piano. She teaches him songs. She is teaching him “Greensleeves.”

  Your vows you've broken, like my heart,

  Oh, why do you so enrapture me?

  There is a sudden report of rifle fire—the soldiers practicing in the Common. “Why must they always do that when I'm playing?” Alice asks crossly. “All right, let's begin again.”

  Your vows you've broken, like my heart,

  Oh, why do you so enrapture me?

  Now I remain in a world apart

  But my heart remains in captivity.

  Whom does he see when he sings these words? Janaki? Each time he visits, she asks if he has heard from his wife, and each time, he says no. At first he claimed not to be troubled by this. “I'm sure,” he'd said, “that I shall have a letter next week.” Then, when no letter came, he'd said, “No doubt the war is interfering with the delivery of the post.” But letters keep arriving from his mother.

  More rifle fire. And no letter. “It's probably nothing,” Alice says. “Perhaps she's gone to visit her family.”

  “She would have told me.”

  “Well, does your mother mention her in her letters?”

  “No.”

  “Could you ask your mother?”

  “It would not be … No, I could not.”

  He rests his elbow on the wooden lip of the piano—delicately, so that it doesn't touch the keys. Then he rests his head on his hand. And how she longs to stroke his black hair! But she would no sooner touch him than admit to the surge of hope, even joy, that she feels each time he tells her that he has still not heard from Janaki. For if Janaki has, in fact, left him, or moved away, or died, then he will need her more than ever. And if he needs her, he will come more often; perhaps even move back into the house.