Writing on Skin

by Sara Banerji

  He had heard them in a powerful West End musical Daniel had taken them to, but Edward knew no lover could come so close and give such pleasure as the mingling now occurring in his bloodstream. Closer than a lover. Oh, dear God.

  The tingling began to spread through his body like the shivering of stars in a silent sky. A physical tinkling echoed through his system like great glass panes shattering. As paradise began to buoy up his crippled blood, anxiety dissolved and ease began to approach.

  Looking up at a ceiling that was no longer painted plaster, but had become soft and stirring, possessed of a heartbeat, troubled with small spasmodic twitches like living velvet, Edward remembered once again the pleasure of existence.

  As the drug progressed to the deeper recesses of his consciousness, he saw smiles creep across the throbbing ceiling substance, eyes slowly open, stare, then vanish as lids fell softly.

  He saw serpents that twined and struggled in their desperation to be one and become closer than a lover. He saw the open throat of God, and beyond, where God keeps his tonsils, the golden glow of Hell.

  Chapter Nine

  During the three-hour journey to Waswar, Hermione, succumbing to the deluded dozing of the sad and aged, now and again jerked awake to be surprised that it was not Hugh sitting beside her. As the plane strummed through the sky and little meals arrived on clip-on plastic trays, she gradually became soothed, and started to feel excited about her examination of India.

  ‘Anyway Barry Taylor urged me to keep at it.’

  ‘Keep at it?’ asked Hermione, guilty, realizing that she had allowed her attention to leave a subject David thought important.

  ‘I told you, Granny, my poetry. Barry, my tutor, says I have the makings of a great modern poet.’ Hermione felt David’s reproachful eye rest on her momentarily. Then he said in an aggrieved voice, ‘You haven’t been listening, Granny.’

  Hermione, annoyed at the presumption of such irresponsible praise, said, ‘Please don’t call me “Granny”.’

  The boy seemed speechless for a moment, and she could feel him looking at her while she stared straight ahead, keeping her eyes fixed on the antimacassar-like cloth hanging on the back of the seat before her.

  ‘Not “Granma”?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said, still not looking at him.

  ‘But what… what should I call you?’

  ‘What about “Hermione”? It’s my name,’ she said.

  David gazed at her aghast. ‘I can’t call you “Hermione”.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Everybody else does.’

  ‘But I’m not everybody else,’ cried the boy, sounding quite shrill and childlike. ‘I am your grandson.’

  ‘Well, if you can’t manage it, don’t. But “Hermione” is what I should prefer,’ she said with a touch of coldness.

  ‘All right,’ said David softly into his salmon mousse. ‘Could I ask you why, though?’

  Hermione thought for a while, then said, ‘I don’t like being a grandmother.’

  The boy said nothing for a moment, dipped in his fork, and then suddenly let out a great burst of laughter that made the people before and behind them turn to look.

  ‘Oh! Gran … I mean Hermione! I see. Of course. Neither would I.’ Hermione realized she was being forgiven for the cerise tracksuit.

  To reward him for his laughter, she added quietly, ‘I think I do not any longer like to be a mother either.’

  ‘No, of course not. You are starting again,’ David oddly observed.

  Perhaps, she thought, it was the poet in him that gave him the ability for such insight, and she began to forgive Barry Taylor too. The salmon was good. She wondered why people were so critical of airline meals.

  Rupert was waiting to meet them at the airport. Hermione saw him first because of the way he was moving from leg to leg, swinging his arms, rocking his head, practising secret isometrics as he waited. No one else kept their body on the go like Rupert. At the sight of them he grinned wildly, jumped up and down a couple of times, and began to wave his arms like the blades of a windmill.

  Rupert had always been like this, as though constantly exercising every muscle. When he was about four Hermione had read him and Edward the story of the yogi who had meditated so deeply and for so long that creepers had grown round his body. Rupert, who had been leaning against her knee jiggling his body constantly, had been appalled. ‘Mother, be careful. You mustn’t meditate any more.’ For days after he had peeped at her anxiously when she was meditating, ready, she supposed, to rush in with an axe and rescue her if he saw signs of excessive plant growth. The story had seemed to confirm everything he feared about staying still.

  As they drove from the airport Hermione examined him. There had been so many people at the funeral, and she had been feeling so dazed then that she had not really been able to take Rupert and his family in. He wore stylish-looking drill shorts, a crisp bush shirt, and was as tanned and slim as ever. He had always been a handsome man, and still was, though now his face was rather hollow. He seemed younger than his forty-seven years but perhaps that was because he had not tired himself out with too much thinking. She administered herself a spiritual slap for the unkindness and said, ‘You look well. I suppose all the exercise is keeping you fit.’

  He put an arm round her and hugged her, enveloping her briefly in a pleasant smell of aftershave. ‘And you’re looking pretty good too, Ma, in spite of everything.’

  He is a nice man, kind, thought Hermione as, without returning the embrace, she looked straight ahead of her and took in Was war. He means well, he can’t help it if he is rather shallow and trivial. She kept her gaze grimly fixed on the concrete high-rise shops they passed and reprimanded herself strictly, this is your own son. You can’t think of him as though he is just any other middle-aged man.

  Waswar was as she’d expected: featureless concrete shops blazing with high-priced designer clothes, luxury goods and leather luggage that seemed to her incongruous and out of place because beyond it, seen glimpsed through every street ending, was the desert, as though the town was just a blob, which a few strokes of the sandy fingers would erode.

  As if echoing her thoughts Rupert said, ‘They have a constant battle with the sand here. Given half a chance it would leak into all the roads and then the buildings, and block up everything. As it is, it’s constantly causing problems by getting into the moving parts of machinery. Electricity generators are always breaking down because of it and sand in the carburettor is the main excuse given by our employees for not turning up for work.’

  Rupert’s house was a handsome long, low bungalow painted white and flanked by trees. There were beds of zinnias and canna lilies in the garden, and a splendid blue swimming pool which an Arab servant was walking round, taking out fallen leaves with a long-handled net.

  Anne rushed out as they stopped the car, arms spread for embracing. She was wearing what looked to Hermione like two small white towels, exposing a vast expanse of body.

  ‘My darling, darling boy,’ she gushed, reaching for David.

  David, mumbling, ‘Oh, Mum, for goodness sake,’ ducked to avoid being suffocated between giant tanned breasts.

  ‘Rupert, isn’t Mummy looking well?’ Anne trilled as Hermione sank into a verandah chair.

  At the clap of Anne’s hands a solemn-faced Filipino appeared with cool drinks and salted nuts on a silver tray.

  ‘When you’ve had a rest we’ll go out and buy you some decent clothes,’ cried Anne.

  ‘I’m perfectly satisfied with the ones I have got, thank you,’ said Hermione dryly.

  Anne, her lips pinched with disappointment, turned to her son for support. ‘Oh, darling, you agree, don’t you, that Granma can’t go around looking like that?’

  ‘I think she looks very nice,’ said David, going red.

  Hermione went up to her room at last, and when she had washed, she unpacked the things they had asked her to bring from England. As she laid them on the bed sh
e reflected how revealing of character the requests had been. There were false nails and eyelashes for Anne. A set of golf balls, a towelling headband, and six pairs of sports socks for Rupert. ‘I go through them as though they were toast at breakfast.’ And for Mary, twelve pairs of mini bikinis and recent copies of teenage magazines.

  ‘What do you like about them?’ Hermione asked Mary without criticism as she handed them over.

  ‘Yes, aren’t they awful, aren’t they crude!’ cried Anne. ‘You tell her, Hermione. Here we live with the very best and all she can think about is vulgarity.’

  Mary snatched them, muttering, ‘Why don’t you understand anything at all?’

  ‘No, but come on,’ urged Anne. ‘What is missing in your life? Look, you could have anything that money can buy.’

  ‘It can’t buy freedom,’ shouted Mary suddenly, and she rushed out slamming the door.

  ‘What I have to put up with,’ sighed Anne self-pityingly and if she had not been wearing so much mascara Hermione felt sure her daughter-in-law would have cried.

  ‘Now take Granny out. Show her everything,’ said Rupert next morning, as he sat back in his chair at the breakfast table and flexed his calf muscles.

  Mary peeped up sullenly from her imported Corn Flakes. ‘I’m going to a rave,’ she muttered.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ asked Anne.

  ‘I wish I was anyway,’ scowled Mary. ‘But at least I’ve been asked to a bloody beach party.’ She paused, then seeing her mother’s hopeful glance added. ‘No one over sixteen allowed.’

  Anne sighed. She had planned to have a facial. In the end she and Rupert took Hermione to the club for lunch.

  There, like survivors from some disaster but still trying to keep up standards, was the expatriate community of Waswar. There was even a nursery complete with slides, swings, pedal cars, bunk beds, and little tables for the children to drink their milk at. The twenty or so toddlers and their Indian ayahs were being overseen by a young Scottish uniformed nanny.

  Rupert, Anne and Hermione joined several slightly drunk Europeans seated on a tree-shaded lawn where water sprinklers played, making rainbows. Beyond, as everywhere in Waswar, lay the desert. Golden, clean and empty, to Hermione it had taken on the characteristics of an alternative paradise. She felt that if she asked each of them if they ever went there, she could predict their opinions. Inert: Rupert. Gritty: Anne. Un-intellectual: David. Boring: Mary.

  The expat community greeted Hermione with the joy of people getting news from home after a national disaster. And on being told that she was not staying but would be in India three days later, their comments became tinged with bitterness. ‘Can’t take more than three days of Waswar? Well, I don’t blame you,’ and ‘Oh, dear, abandoning your family so soon? I don’t expect they will like that.’

  ‘They will not mind a bit,’ said Hermione, grimly humourless because she did not properly understand what they meant.

  A club servant brought chilled beers and sandwiches as they sat in their white wicker chairs that reminded Hermione of the day Hugh died.

  ‘I thought it was a Muslim country and alcohol was not allowed,’ Hermione said as she drank her beer with gratitude.

  A hush fell on the gathering and after rather a long and awkward silence a middle-aged man in a loud T-shirt, cravat, and baggy long shorts said firmly, ‘I hear Rupert is winning the squash championship. You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hermione defensively on their way home. ‘How was I to know you don’t ask questions about alcohol?’

  ‘It’s all right, Mother, it’s all right, it doesn’t matter,’ said Rupert in the sort of voice that made it obvious it did.

  The whole family went to a barbecue on a private golden beach that evening and Hermione took care not to make any more faux pas. It was not that she minded making them particularly, nor that she cared about embarrassing Anne or Rupert. It was as though she had become too tired and discouraged with life even for tactlessness. I have really got old, she told herself, as she took her plate of smoky food, when I cannot even find the energy to be rude any more.

  David came and sat beside her and asked softly, apparently careful that his parents should not hear, ‘I have written some poems about you, Hermione. Would you like to see them?’

  ‘Me?’ She did not laugh.

  ‘There is sometimes a look about you as though you know things other people do not. As though you are a seer,’ he murmured, blushing.

  When they were ready to go home no one could find Mary. She appeared at last from among some trees, her dress crumpled, her hair untidy, her face red, and though Anne questioned her ferociously no one was able to discover where she had been.

  As they got into their car, from the corner of her eye Hermione, with a silent chuckle, saw a young man emerge furtively and similarly tousled from the spot which had minutes before manifested Mary.

  On their way home as they thrust through swift dense traffic, horns roaring, engines revving, a rosy moon was visible from every window of the car in turn, as though it was following them. Hermione decided there must be something about her lately that encouraged confidences. Mary asked her softly when the rest of the family were talking about something else, ‘Have you ever been in love, Hermione?’

  Hermione was being a spoilsport during her visit and was aware of it. She looked forward to the stay coming to an end, realizing that she was not able to appreciate the things Rupert and Anne thought valuable.

  On her last evening, as though she was being given one final chance to pass a test, Rupert said, ‘Today the kids have been told to take you wherever you want to go.’

  David volunteered, ‘We can have the car and we’ve got a driver, Suleman. He’s good.’ To Mary he said, seemingly without expectation, ‘You really coming?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Dad said you must,’ said David indifferently.

  ‘I told you no,’ snapped Mary as though it had not occurred to her that any other response was possible.

  Pity made Hermione say, ‘I would love it if you came too, dear.’ After all, at least the girl had not called her ‘Granny’ once.

  ‘Oh, all right then. If you want,’ said Mary with relieved reluctance.

  ‘I’ve got my masseur coming round or I’d have joined you,’ said Anne, adding insincerely, Td have adored to come. What a shame.’

  ‘And I’ve got a meeting, so I probably won’t see you till breakfast,’ said Rupert.

  The air was dry and gritty, the sky transparent blue. Hermione sat in the back beside Mary, and David sat in front with the Arab driver. As they joined the main road, Hermione reflected that the driver looked definitely the only grand one of the group in his white robes and banded headdress. Hermione still grimly wore one of her cerise tracksuits, Mary’s skirt was so short that her new mini bikinis were visible everytime she moved her legs, and David’s white shorts and aertex shirt looked merely comfortable. It was like being taken out as children, thought Hermione, by some responsible and overdressed adult.

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ said David, looking round.

  ‘To the desert,’ said Hermione promptly. It would not have surprised her if the grand Arab driver had shaken his head and said, ‘You are not old enough. The desert is for grown-ups only.’

  As it was he said nothing but at David’s instruction set off along the road that led out of town.

  It was dark and enormously quiet when they reached the desert.

  ‘I would like to stop here,’ said Hermione, waving her hand, and reflecting with pleasure that it did not really matter where they stopped. Perhaps anywhere for the next thousand miles would be exactly the same as this spot.

  The four of them, a thin old lady, two teenage grandchildren and the flamboyant Arab got out of the car and stood in a solemn row under a sky that was so far away it was possible to understand what was meant by infinity. This, decided Hermione, was why cathedrals had to be so high. God exp
ected it.

  The moon was pink and full so that their shadows lay before them on the sand like crisp black newsprint. Mary’s whispered, ‘Wow’ only enhanced a silence that seemed blessed after the cheap clamour of Waswar.

  David touched Hermione gently on the arm and pointed to the ground. There for a brief moment she saw a large pale spider scuttling along and jerking with it its own spiky black shadow. Then it and its shadow were gone, off an unblemished sandy surface. As Hermione continued to stare, trying to make out what had happened to it, the spider, or perhaps another one, suddenly appeared again as if re-created. For several minutes spiders and their scratchy shadows appeared and vanished like lights winking off and on. Hermione said nothing. She did not want to know how they did it, thinking that for the rest of her life she would feel she had witnessed creation.

  A desert fox appeared on the horizon and stood there, muzzle raised, watching them, its coat seeming to glitter because of the way the moonlight outlined it. The hard light of urban neon glowed in the sky alongside the desert moon and from far away they heard the rumbling sound of city traffic, but it did not seem to matter any more. Except that they had to return to it.

  When they got back Anne cried out with horror, ‘Poor Granny! You didn’t take her to the desert, did you? Among all those disgusting insects? You should have gone to the shops.’ Turning to Hermione she said, ‘That’s the one good thing about this place compared to England. The shops stay open till all hours here.’ Anne’s new artificial eyelashes reminded Hermione suddenly of the shadow of the desert spider, and she had to pinch back a laugh.

  Next morning the visit was over and she was back at the airport on her way to India.

  ‘Goodbye darling! It’s been wonderful,’ she lied as she embraced David and boarded the plane alone, with relief and excitement because the real journey towards India was just about to start.