by Odo Hirsch
Amelia went back to reading. It was a horror story she had just started about a killer hamster that gets caught in an X-ray machine in a laboratory and grows to the size of a wolf, but because Amelia had read so many horror stories she could quickly tell which ones were any good. This one wasn’t particularly promising, which was why she had been looking out the window and saw the cream-coloured car coming down Marburg Street in the first place.
The sound of banging and chiselling came from the sculpture room. Painting and weaving were much quieter arts, and Amelia often wished her mother would spend more of her time on them. Lately, she had spent all her time in the sculpture room, and wouldn’t let anyone in to see what she was doing. Amelia’s father said that probably indicated the start of a new phase. What made Amelia’s mother go from one phase to the next was a mystery to Amelia. Still, it was probably a good thing if it meant there weren’t going to be any more of the narrow so-called faces in the garden. On the other hand, it might not be such a good thing if something even worse appeared.
The intercom on Amelia’s wall buzzed. It was a system her father had invented, with a number of improvements which supposedly made it superior to every other intercom system in the world. Or would, when he had perfected them. The fact that it wasn’t quite finished hadn’t stopped him installing it.
‘Amelia, can you . . . I need . . . come . . . and bring . . . quickly because . . .’
Amelia sighed. That was better than usual. Even hearing the buzz of the intercom was better than usual.
She waited, still listening. A few more words came out, then there was a kind of scrunchy crackling. Then silence.
Her father would be in his invention shed in the garden. Amelia put the book aside and left her room. On the second floor, the banging behind the door to the sculpture room was loud. Amelia went all the way down. Mrs Ellis was beating eggs in the kitchen as she went past.
The door to Mr Vishwanath’s studio was open. Amelia stopped. She knew that at that very moment the old lady was inside.
Amelia hesitated. Mr Vishwanath’s door wasn’t normally open. He must have forgotten to close it properly when the old lady arrived. Amelia had never actually been inside the studio. The door opened into a small kitchen, and from the kitchen a passageway led further in. You could see that much from the back door. But where the passageway went, Amelia didn’t know.
She knew she shouldn’t go in. Mr Vishwanath valued his privacy. But Amelia was dying to find out what the old lady was doing in there. Maybe it was because this would finally give her the chance to disprove all the rumours that Eugenie and Kevin and everyone else were always spreading. Or maybe it was Amelia’s dislike of the old lady that made her curiosity so intense. What could such a severe, ungenerous old woman possibly be doing with Mr Vishwanath, who was such a good, gentle man?
The kitchen was small and simple. Almost at once, Amelia was at the passageway on the other side.
The passageway was unlit. It led past another small room which had no window and was dark inside. Amelia glanced in. She caught the scent of the oil Mr Vishwanath rubbed on himself before he started his yoga exercises. She could make out a kind of mat on the floor. It looked like the room where Mr Vishwanath slept. Amelia was feeling guiltier and guiltier. At the end of the passageway, a door stood slightly ajar, and light came through the crack.
Amelia went to it. She stood behind the door and listened.
Silence.
Amelia put her eye to the crack. All she could see was a blank strip of wall.
She pushed the door. Then a little further. She put her head around it.
Light. The room was big, open, airy. On the opposite side was the sheet over the front window, with a soft, even light coming through it. In the middle of the room stood Mr Vishwanath, his back towards Amelia, in his blue yoga nappy. The old lady was facing him, wearing a green leotard. Both of them were standing on one foot with their other foot around their neck. The old lady’s eyes were closed.
Amelia stared. The expression on the old lady’s face was calm, even gentle. The harshness had gone. It was more like Mr Vishwanath’s expression, suffused with a kind of peace and contentment.
Mr Vishwanath murmured something. The woman opened her eyes.
She saw Amelia. In an instant, her face changed, as if the calm, gentle expression had been nothing but a mask.
‘How dare you!’ cried the lady.
It was another moment before Mr Vishwanath could get his foot off his neck and look around.
By then Amelia had fled.
CHAPTER 6
Amelia didn’t stop until she was back in her room and the door was closed behind her.
She was panting for breath. She peered out the window, hiding behind the edge of the curtain. The old lady was marching out of Mr Vishwanath’s studio. The driver wasn’t ready for her, and Amelia saw him jump out, hastily slapping his hat on his head as he scurried around the car. The old lady waited as the man fumbled at the door. For a moment, Amelia forgot about what she herself had done and watched the lady on the street below in distaste. Was the old lady too good even to open a simple car door for herself?
Then the lady got in, the man went back to the driver’s seat, and the big cream-coloured car pulled out and moved off down the street. And Amelia was left thinking about what she had done, the shame and dishonesty of it. How she had crept into Mr Vish-wanath’s home. Like a sneak. Like a thief.
She opened her door a fraction and listened to the sounds coming from the house. There was a banging in the sculpture room. Between the bangs, nothing. Amelia continued to listen, trying to hear if anyone was coming up the stairs.
She closed the door and sat down on her bed. She didn’t know what was going to happen next. Maybe Mr Vishwanath was waiting to see one of her parents and tell them about it.
She listened. Still nothing.
The minutes passed. Amelia almost wished she could hear someone coming up the stairs. Shame and guilt kept building up in her.
Eventually Amelia came out of her room.
She waited for a moment, listening, looking down over the banister under the lamp. Then she went slowly back down the stairs, past Mrs Ellis in the kitchen, who was busy chopping something and hadn’t noticed her run past before and looked up too late to see her go by now.
She found Mr Vishwanath sitting on his chair outside the back door in his faded red shirt and old brown trousers.
Amelia hesitated, still standing. Mr Vishwanath didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her.
Amelia sat down beside him.
The minutes passed. Slowly. Awkwardly. Amelia kept glancing at Mr Vishwanath. She wished he would say something. But he just kept gazing at the garden.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Vishwanath,’ said Amelia at last.
Mr Vishwanath didn’t speak.
Amelia waited. Then she said it again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Vishwanath. I really am. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just the door was open and . . . well, I just wanted to see. I asked you before what the old lady did when she came to you, and you wouldn’t say, so I . . . I . . .’ Amelia stopped. That was no excuse. ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I can say, Mr Vishwanath. I’m really, really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did. How can I make it up to you?’
Now, at last, Mr Vishwanath looked at her. ‘To me?’ he said, in his soft voice, like the gentle thrumming of a drum. ‘Do you think you have injured me?’
Amelia frowned.
‘It’s not me you have injured, Amelia. It’s not me you have to make it up to.’
Who was it? A horrible thought crossed Amelia’s mind. Not the old lady! She didn’t want to make anything up to her.
But it wasn’t the old lady. Suddenly Amelia understood. Something in the way Mr Vishwanath was watching her made it clear. It wasn’t himself he was talking about, and it wasn’t the old lady either.
‘The things we do that we wish we have not done, the one we injure most is ourself,’ said
Mr Vishwanath.
Amelia frowned. She wasn’t sure about that. ‘What if you kill someone?’
‘You kill yourself as well. The other person dies physically, but you yourself die in a different way.’
‘But at least you’re not dead!’
‘True,’ said Mr Vishwanath, but he said it in such a tone that Amelia knew he meant it was true in one way, but not in another.
Amelia thought about it. Mr Vishwanath was right. Stealing into his studio like that hadn’t really hurt Mr Vishwanath. But it had left her with a sense of guilt and shame that almost made her hate herself. All she wanted now was a chance to prove herself again.
‘Mr Vishwanath, have you ever done things you wished you hadn’t?’
Mr Vishwanath didn’t answer. After a moment there was a slight smile on his lips.
Of course not, thought Amelia. Stupid question. He had never done anything bad, not Mr Vishwanath.
‘In my youth,’ he murmured, ‘I was quite a terror.’
Amelia looked at him doubtfully. A terror? Mr Vishwanath?
The smile lingered a moment longer, then was gone. Mr Vishwanath’s expression was perfectly serious again. ‘Every day it is a new battle, to do what we should. And if we have been successful yesterday, it doesn’t mean that the battle today is going to be any less hard.’
‘But you hardly ever go out of your house, Mr Vishwanath! How hard can it be for you?’
Mr Vishwanath nodded. Amelia didn’t know exactly what that meant.
They sat in silence, staring at the sculptures in the garden.
‘So you’re not angry with me?’ asked Amelia eventually.
‘Only as angry as you are with yourself,’ said Mr Vishwanath.
Amelia frowned. ‘I bet the old lady was angry!’
Mr Vishwanath didn’t reply.
‘I bet she’s angry with everybody! She looks so sour. And do you see what she does to that man who drives the car for her? She’s so mean! She makes him sit there all the time that . . .’
Amelia stopped. Mr Vishwanath was looking at her.
‘Why do you teach her, Mr Vishwanath?’ Amelia thought of the stories about the people Mr Vishwanath refused to teach, and yet he was happy to teach yoga to such an unpleasant person. ‘Does she pay you a lot?’
‘She pays me if she has the money,’ replied Mr Vishwanath.
‘You mean sometimes she doesn’t pay you?’
‘Money is not the most important thing.’
‘You mean she comes and she doesn’t pay you? She has that big car and—’
‘She is a very old student of mine,’ said Mr Vishwanath. ‘She has been coming to me for many years.’
‘But she’s so horrible!’
‘Have you ever even spoken to her, Amelia?’
‘But you can see it!’
Mr Vishwanath sighed. ‘In every person, Amelia, there is a beauty.’
Amelia started to laugh.
‘You cannot tell from the outside.’
Mr Vishwanath’s voice was soft, almost too soft to hear. Amelia stopped laughing. She remembered the look on the old lady’s face in Mr Vishwanath’s studio, in that split second before the lady opened her eyes and saw Amelia spying on her. Calm. Gentle. Beautiful?
‘Is she angry with you now?’ asked Amelia quietly. ‘Because of me?’
Mr Vishwanath didn’t reply.
‘Is she not going to come back, Mr Vishwanath?’
Mr Vishwanath was silent for a moment. ‘She is easily angered. That is one of her faults.’
‘Why?’
‘In her own way, she has had a hard life. Yet most people would think it has been easy. Materially. The easier others think it, the harder it seems to her.’
‘Mr Vishwanath, that sounds like a riddle.’
‘Look,’ said Mr Vishwanath. ‘Here comes your father.’
Amelia jumped. For a second, she thought Mr Vishwanath was going to tell her father about what she had done. Then she knew that was the last thing he would do.
Her father wandered absentmindedly towards them from the shed at the end of the garden, staring at the ground as he made his way through the sculptures. He didn’t notice Mr Vishwanath and Amelia until he had almost reached the verandah.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Hello.’
Amelia smiled.
‘Hello,’ said Mr Vishwanath.
Amelia’s father frowned. ‘Didn’t I . . . Amelia, didn’t I call you before?’
‘When?’
‘On the intercom. Didn’t I call you?’
‘Why would you have called me?’
‘I needed something. That’s right. I remember now, I needed something urgently.’
‘What was it?’ asked Amelia.
Amelia’s father frowned again. ‘I don’t know . . . I must have . . . Amelia, if I need something urgently, you have to bring it. Do you understand? If I don’t have it, I may as well not even bother!’
‘Alright,’ said Amelia.
‘If no one ever got things when they needed them, no one would manage to invent anything new. And you know what would happen then, don’t you?’
‘We’d still be in the Stone Age,’ said Amelia under her breath.
‘We’d still be in the Stone Age!’ said Amelia’s father. Amelia nodded.
Amelia’s father frowned again. ‘What was it that I needed?’ he muttered to himself, and rubbed his chin. ‘What was it?’ He turned around and began to walk back to the shed, still frowning and muttering, having forgotten about whatever it was that had made him come out of the shed in the first place.
Amelia watched him. She wondered what it would be like to have a father like other children had. Or at least one who wasn’t exactly like the one she had.
Eventually she shrugged. She turned back to Mr Vishwanath.
‘Mr Vishwanath, if that old lady’s life is so hard, she should do something to make it easier. No point complaining about it.’
‘Many people would say her life has not been hard.’
‘Then even less point!’ exclaimed Amelia.
‘Maybe it isn’t so simple,’ said Mr Vishwanath.
‘And maybe it isn’t so complicated,’ replied Amelia, although she had no idea now what Mr Vishwanath was talking about, and she just said it because it sounded right. Although why should it be so complicated? Why should anything be complicated, if you just took the time to think about it sensibly?
Mr Vishwanath was watching her as if something was going through his mind. Something he wasn’t sure about.
‘What is it, Mr Vishwanath?’ asked Amelia.
Mr Vishwanath thought for a moment longer. ‘Would you like to meet her?’ he said at last. ‘The old lady, as you call her?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Amelia.
‘Are you scared to?’
‘No. Who is she?’
‘The Princess Parvin Kha-Douri.’
CHAPTER 7
The thought of meeting the old lady really was a bit scary, even though Amelia had told Mr Vishwanath that it wasn’t. But the thought of meeting a princess was exciting. And no one could have been more excited than Eugenie, even though she wasn’t even going to meet her.
‘A princess!’ she said, for about the fiftieth time.
‘I know,’ said Amelia, for the forty-ninth.
‘A real princess!’
‘Eugenie, I think we’re all aware of that now,’ said Kevin.
They were walking home after a hockey game, carrying their sticks.
‘You’ll have to curtsy, Amelia,’ said Eugenie suddenly. ‘Properly. I’ll show you how.’
Eugenie dropped right there on the footpath, flinging out her arms and almost hitting Kevin with her stick. It was a low, extravagant curtsy, head bent, nose only a couple of centimetres from the pavement.
Eugenie glanced up at Amelia. ‘Now you do it.’
‘Eugenie, I know how to curtsy.’
‘Show me.’
‘Eugenie, I kno
w.’
Eugenie looked at her doubtfully. Then she straightened up. ‘Well, you’ve seen now, anyway,’ she said rather pompously. ‘You can practise at home.’
They started walking again.
‘She’s too old to be a princess,’ said Kevin.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Eugenie.
‘Princesses are meant to be young.’
‘And then they get old.’
‘Then they’re meant to be queens.’
‘Only if they marry a prince, or if they’re heir to the throne. But they’re always a princess. No one can take that away from them.’ Eugenie sighed. ‘A princess . . . Princess Parvin Kha-Douri.’ She murmured the name softly, as it was almost too precious to say out loud.
‘Well, it seems ridiculous to me,’ muttered Kevin, ‘still being a princess when you’re that old.’
Eugenie didn’t reply to that. She stuck her nose in the air.
They stopped at the Sticky Sunday ice-cream shop. Kevin got a double scoop of Caramel and Hazelnut. Amelia got Raspberry Ripple and Walnuts ’n’ Cream. Eugenie spent a long time examining all the possibilities and got a small serve of frozen yoghurt. They sat down on the stools along the wall.
‘If you don’t want to see her, Amelia,’ said Eugenie, ‘I’ll go instead.’
‘Mr Vishwanath didn’t invite you,’ said Kevin.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
‘He invited Amelia.’
‘And she doesn’t know whether she wants to go.’
‘Of course I want to go,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s just . . .’ Eugenie and Kevin watched her expectantly.
‘What?’
Amelia didn’t say. She had told Eugenie and Kevin that Mr Vishwanath had invited her to meet the Princess – not what she had done half an hour before he made the suggestion.
Eugenie watched her for a moment longer. Then she leaned forward earnestly. ‘You must go, Amelia. A princess! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.’
Kevin shook his head. ‘Don’t go if you don’t want to.’
‘Kevin!’ Eugenie almost shrieked.
‘What difference does it make if she’s a princess? I bet she thinks she’s terribly important, but just being a princess doesn’t make her more important than anyone else.’
