The Setting Sun (18 page)

When I wake, there’s only an hour before the appointment. I place the picture amongst the others photocopied by my aunt Pat. I look again at the page of his ‘girl-friends in India’. I must ask Modak if he knew Beryl Grey or Maria. Perhaps they were also in Satara at the time. I wonder again about Modak’s insistence on Bill’s womanising. How much is fiction, how much true?

Eric Balson’s proving impossible to prise out. However fast the boy tears down the concrete drive towards the garage door on which the stumps are chalked, however quickly he whips his arm over, as his father’s taught him, Mr Balson picks out the tennis ball unerringly and flogs it beyond the nettles into the vegetable patch. His own sons seem reluctant to run for it, as if they don’t want to diminish their father’s glory, so the boy and his brothers have worked themselves into a lather retrieving the ball. The boy takes the opportunity to give the Brussels sprouts a cuff. He’s always secretly glad when his mother mournfully reports another nocturnal raid by an elephant. They can take the lot as far as the boy’s concerned. If they didn’t grow sprouts, perhaps the elephants wouldn’t come, he’s helpfully suggested
.

There’s a welcome break when his younger brother finds a chameleon in a shrub and they all gather round, hoping it’ll change colour before their eyes or flick out its tongue like a sticky rubber band at the ant it’s shadowing. The creature moves jerkily up the twig, swivelling each eye independently of the other beneath miniature horns, one eye on them, the other fixed on its prey. Close up, it’s something out of a prehistoric horror film: scaly skin, long tail and horns. What a size its forebears must have been in the age of dinosaurs. With a shudder, the boy imagines himself in the place of the ant which the chameleon is steadying itself to strike. The insect disappears in a blur of plum tongue swifter than a slingshot. The excitement over, they trudge back to resume the game
.

Mr Balson’s the Public Works Department officer at the Ngorongoro Crater, where the boy’s family moved after their posting in Manyoni. A boyish, sandy man, he seems in awe of the game ranger. His wife’s an impossibly pretty, slim, blonde woman who seems much too young to have three sons. The oldest, Alan, is closest to him in age and the boy often visits their house a mile or so away down the red murram road. It’s worth the risk of running into game, because of Viva’s wonderful puddings, gluey mousses and moist crumbles that the boy’s mother never makes. She always offers second helpings, spooning out the dessert with laughing blue eyes, as if anxious he doesn’t get enough to eat at home
.

The boy has decided he’s in love with her, but he’s not sure what it means exactly. Certainly not what was shown in
Samson and Delilah,
the most recent flick his father’s taken him to see. They drove all the way to Arusha, ninety miles distant, he’s such a fan of Hedy Lamarr. ‘History’s Most Beautiful and Treacherous Woman’, the poster indelibly proclaimed. But the boy hated Delilah. So mean to Samson, she couldn’t have loved him, for all her breathy protestations. It’s something about her eyes, hard and depthless like the chameleon’s. Utterly unlike Viva’s. Sometimes the boy’s jealous of Alan, his mother so dotes upon him
.

Perhaps it’s because his father’s disappeared that Mr Balson’s now so expansive, laughing and joking while a succession of bowlers tries to dismiss him. Usually he’s reserved, though always pleasant. Sometimes he brings his family round in the evening to watch the game gathering on the salt lick the boy’s father constructed on the ridge opposite their house. However, he will often say nothing, listening respectfully as his host talks about the population patterns of different species or poaching problems in the Conservation Area, while the wives discuss schools or long leave. The boy’s father has told him that Eric’s asked about a transfer to the Game Department
.

The boy wants his turn to bat. There’s only one way to get the visitor out, and that’s to get his father back on bowling. Even fresh from the office in his clicking brogues, he’s too good for all of them. But where is he? He slipped off, saying he needed a drink. That was twenty minutes ago. Now Eric’s racing towards a double century. Surely his father won’t want his record beaten? He’d better warn him of the danger
.

He’s not in the kitchen or living room. Strange, because there in the corridor are his shoes. Kimwaga shakes his head when the boy asks if he’s seen him. The child sets off into the garden. Round the rough-grassed lawn, his mother has planted borders edged with red-hot pokers which nod stiffly in the changeable breeze. She’s sitting at the far end, in a deck-chair, reading a book in the shade, as if keeping watch over her creation. One night, a few weeks before, some buffalo broke down the fence and congregated gruffly on the lawn. Calling his son, the boy’s father led him out onto the front steps and threw a thunder-flash, laughing as the tossing shadows stampeded back the way they came, trembling the ground. The following day, his mother wept over the destruction. Now she looks too absorbed to disturb, so the boy crosses the garden to return to the cricket match, on the other side of the wing where the bedrooms are. He hears another triumphant shout from Mr Balson and feet haring towards the vegetable patch
.

He crouches behind a shrub under his parents’ bedroom window, in case he’s called to wade through nettles again. For a while he watches a dung beetle laboriously rolling its freight across the flowerbed. When someone shouts that it’s his turn to bowl, the boy begins to straighten up. As he does so, he glances in through the metal-framed window. He freezes in his half-squat. A few inches away a man’s back fills the square of glass. He recognises the short-sleeved Fair Isle sweater immediately. But that’s not what arrests him. A delicate white hand is moving tremulously up his father’s shoulder until it finds the neck; it pauses there, before fingers search again, twisting like tendrils in the short hair of the nape. Beyond his father’s bent head, the boy can see curling blonde hair. He’s paralysed. If he moves, he may give himself away. Yet he doesn’t want to see. Something deadly dangerous is happening. Like the fight with the cook
.

Suddenly the tableau shifts sideways, the bodies pressed closer together. Surely they’ll see him now? But the boy stifles his panic. His father’s always telling him to keep still if he senses danger in the bush. It’s the first lesson of the wilds. To his huge relief, their eyes are closed. The mouths slide softly on each other, as if lips are slipping in their search for traction. Viva’s hand moves again, caressing his father above the collar, fingers opening and closing like tender scissors. The boy’s close enough to see goosebumps on her downy forearm. There’s an expression on his father’s face the boy’s never seen before, a gorged, flushed relaxation which makes him even more confused. Viva simply looks like she’s dreaming
.

Holding his breath, the boy crouches again. Slow as he can, he backs towards the garden. Should he tell his mother straight away? If he doesn’t, he’ll be doing something just as wrong as what he’s seen. What about Mr Balson? He dismisses the thought immediately. He knows there’ll be an almighty row if he says anything, with the Balson children here. Then he won’t be able to go round any more to play with Alan, and there’ll be no more chocolate mousse or Viva’s loving looks. Oh no! What if his mother has to swap with Viva? Or worse, the game ranger with his would-be apprentice? Suddenly, the boy’s furious with his father for putting them at risk. Trying to compose himself, he runs round the back of the house and rejoins the game. Just as he arrives, there’s yelling enough to wake the dead. Ames has caught Mr Balson. He stayed out by the vegetable patch and clung onto a skyer
.

‘Come on, Bill, your turn,’ Mr Balson shouts, when the congratulations die down
.

Viva comes out first. She’s smiling, composed. After stooping to give her middle son a hug, she approaches the boy and ruffles his hair. With the same hand which a few minutes ago was running through his father’s. Despite himself, the boy feels transfigured, included in a magic triangle. As Viva pours everyone lemonade, the boy’s father appears. His shoelaces are undone and he’s whistling the theme from
Never on a Sunday,
a fixture on the gramophone these days when it’s not the awful Russ Conway
.

‘Sorry to have been so long on the
choo.
Must have been the curry last night.’

Mr Balson laughs politely
.

‘Isn’t this bliss?’ Viva laughs, sipping from her glass
.

At first the boy’s ecstatic that everything’s back to normal. But soon the doubts return, and the fury. He approaches his older brother Ames
.

‘I’ve got something really important to tell you. Get Barney as well.’

Their half-brother, ten years older, has recently finished at Winchester. They’ve never lived all together, the children, and the boy’s unsure of this serious, remote young man with frizzy hazel hair quite unlike theirs, and such easy lines of communication to their mother. Ames looks bemused and goes unwillingly. But as the pair return, something in Barney’s set expression puts the boy off. He remembers schoolmates whose parents have divorced. Only one or two, but everyone behaves as if they’ve been in a road accident or have a rare disease. Besides, there’s that serenity on his father’s face and Viva’s dreaminess. Can anything which makes people so happy really be wrong? The boy has a sudden vision of Samson in the entrance to the temple, the columns quivering as he strains his sinews. In the time it takes for his siblings to arrive, he’s changed his mind
.

‘It’s nothing, sorry,’ he says
.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ames demands. Barney simply stares, as if the boy’s once more proving himself an idiot
.

What does bliss mean, the boy wonders, as his father cheerily seizes the bat. Kiss he knows. Is bliss what you get from the sort of kiss Viva gave his father, or Delilah gave Samson, not the peck on the cheek his parents exchange or which his mother gives the boy? Or is it something softer, shimmery, liquid, which lights you up golden from within, making your face shine the way his father’s and Viva’s do when they steal a glance at one another? Whatever, perhaps it isn’t the same as love
.

CHAPTER 7

The Pendulum Shifts

On my way to the Modaks for high tea, the auto-rickshaw driver’s exuberant.

‘They’re showing these terrorist bastards, yaar?’ he says with a vengeful laugh.

‘What do you mean?’ For an awful moment I think India’s retaliated against Pakistan for the Mumbai attacks.

His puny frame seems to swell with pride. ‘Gaza. The
Yehudi
are showing them what for.’

It’s no surprise that some Indians should be favourably disposed towards Israel, a few of whose citizens were amongst the targets in the recent outrages. I presume the man means there’s been an artillery bombardment or rocket strike against the Hamas leadership. I shrug. The attrition’s been endless since Ariel Sharon unilaterally pulled out of the Gaza enclave, leaving its population imprisoned within a ring of iron. Despite my distaste at his glee, I’ve more pressing things to think about, notably how I’m going to manage this next meeting with the Modaks. I just hope I get there before the fog of exhaust in which we’re stuck suffocates me.

When I arrive at 22/4, Modak’s not yet back. Kiron looks frailer today, dark rings under her eyes. She’s wearing an ivory ankle-length dress and a pair of tennis shoes.

‘Must be the wretched traffic delaying him. Make yourself at home,’ she smiles sweetly, ushering me through the dining room to a small courtyard with a bench and blue-tiled circular table. The walls are lined with potted plants and there’s an enticing smell of citrus and jasmine. Once her daughter’s
brought an extra chair and cushions for the bench, the young woman retires again to fetch drinks.

‘Did you read Emmanuel’s books?’ Kiron asks eagerly, once I’ve again insisted I’m fully recovered from my ‘digestive problems’.

‘Started
No Place for Crime
but I haven’t got that far. Spent a lot of the day sleeping. Thought I’d read them in the order they were published.’ I’ve decided on this ruse so as not to embarrass Modak. Although part of me badly wants to challenge him, I don’t want to put him on the defensive in case he has further information.

Kiron flutters, almost girlish. ‘What I wanted to ask, you being a literature professor, do you have contacts with publishers?’

‘Only academic ones, I’m afraid. Why?’

‘Well, Emmanuel’s written this new novel about King Ashoka, who ruled India two thousand years ago and converted to Buddhism. I think it’s terribly good, but no one’s interested here. We’re forgetting our heritage in this mad rush to be American. I can’t tell you how delightful Pune used to be in your father’s time. The Oxford of the East. Pensioners’ Paradise. Not any more,’ she adds ruefully.

I smile sympathetically.

‘What do you think of
No Place
so far?’

Even though I’ve prepared myself for the question, I find it hard to answer. ‘It’s very interesting on events in Satara,’ I mumble. ‘And I learned a lot about police procedure at the time.’

Kiron smiles, as if I’ve paid her a compliment.

‘Bill Pryce-Jones is based on my father?’

‘Well, my dear, he was rather a writer’s gift, rushing around the district with his machine gun, chasing those people. He certainly had glamour.’

At this point the young woman returns with a tray. She’s wearing jeans with a white long-sleeved shirt. Puppy fat shows
above the collar. She pours me fizzing gin and tonic and juice for her mother.

‘I’ll be off, then, mummy. My shift starts at six. See you later.’ Her hand rests for a moment on Kiron’s arm before she turns to me. ‘Goodbye, Mr Moore-Gilbert. Enjoy your meal.’

‘So you can’t help with Ashoka?’ Mrs Modak asks despondently when the door slams.