The Splendor Of Silence (38 page)

He stepped out into the starlight, keeping the guard's room in the corner of his eye, and walked along the string of cells, peering inside with the help of his torchlight. He kept the beam masked under the fingers of his left hand, in his right he held the Colt. The men inside the cells were shadows of their true selves, some so close to death that they merely lifted their heads to whimper as Sam passed, like beaten dogs. Sam began to whistle, softly, so that only the man he was passing could hear him.

I really can't stay-Baby, it's cold outside I've got to go away-Baby, it's cold outside The evening has beers-

"Sam?" a feeble voice said, so faintly that he almost did not hear it. Sam retraced his steps unhurriedly, his heart banging in his chest, and went back a few paces until he came upon the emaciated figure of a man stretched out on the floor of the cell, his head shoved against the bars. The man's fingers reached out beyond the bars, clawing at the air. Sam placed the cloaked glow of his torchlight against the man's face, lighting his features one by one. The man's eyes blinked even in that dull light, one of his eyebrows had been singed from his skin, his hair was muddy and dusty, his cheekbones jutted out. Sam switched off the torchlight and bent to kiss Mike's rancid fingers. The third finger of his right hand was broken, bent at an unnatural angle, and Sam cradled this hand gently even though he knew that the break was an old one, that Mike felt no pain there anymore. "I'm here," he said softly.

"Sam," Mike said and he put his matted, lice-ridden head on the floor. "This is a dream." His voice rose to a wail at the end of the sentence, and Sam put a hand on his neck to quiet him, feeling the scabs and rashes that had bloomed on his skin.

A quiet descended around Sam. He could see a few hands protruding beyond the bars in other men's cells, could hear their labored breathin
g a
nd also hear breaths being held as the men tried to listen in on their conversation. But no one made a sound to call out to, or attract the attention of, the guards. They must all want a chance at freedom, Sam thought, but not enough to destroy the opportunities of another man?

"I have to go now, Mike," he said. "I will be back in a day or two." Mike did not respond, and then finally he lifted his head and a streak of tears cut through the grime on his face and sank into his beard. "This is a dream," he said again.

"No, not a dream anymore, Mike. Mom sent me to find you." Tears choked Sam's throat and he thought that his heart would be eviscerated. "Mom," Mike said. "Mom."

Sam bent and kissed his brother's hand again. "Soon," he said and rose to run across the courtyard to the stairs that led up the wall. At the top, he tugged on the rope three times and when Vimal answered with a tug of his own, Sam slid down the wall, arriving at the bottom with a thud. When he had reached the ground, Vimal began to sing his curious song in a low voice and, after a minute, the varan hurled itself down the smooth wall of the field punishment center and came to a rest, panting with devotion, at the young man's feet.

As they walked back, Vimal did not glance at Sam or ask him what he had seen inside the center, or what he was going to do about it. Overwhelmed by his brief encounter with Mike, at the burnt umber of his brother's skin and the crooked finger on his right hand, Sam could not talk. He rubbed his chest as he trudged ahead of Vimal, hoping to ease the pain. Sam could not even cry, for anger and hatred had come to lodge within him. Then came many minutes of clarity and a sense of calmness. When they neared Chetak's tomb, he stopped and waited for Vimal to catch up with him, and watched dispassionately as he struggled under the complacent weight of the varan.

"Can you get me a couple of horses, Vimal?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow ... no make it the day after."

"Just that, Captain Hawthorne?"

"Yes." Sam turned to stride away again toward the tomb. Vimal made a little noise like a muffled cough and Sam stopped, still facing away from the young man.

"You must remember your part of the bargain, Captain Hawthorne."

May 30, 1942

R
udrakot,
I
ndia

Chapter
Twenty-One.

you captured my fancy, and since That hypnotic moment I felt like a Prisoner dragging his shackles and Impelled into an unknown place
...
opiate... I
be
c
am
e intoxicated with your sweet Wine that has stolen my will, and I Now find my lips kissing the hand That strikes me sharply. Can you Not see with your soul's eye the Crushing of my heap?

--Khalil Gibran, The Enchanting Houri

*

T
hey left for Rudrakot ten minutes before sunrise, when the sky was a pale lilac along the edges of the horizon and they could see little beyond their outstretched hands.

They had all woken when the night was still dying and the fire in the verandah had burned out. Sam lay in his corner in a swirl of coldness, blinking and rubbing his eyes, wondering if the night had passed as he now remembered it. A few hours ago Vimal had released his varan in the desert, but it had found its way to him in the darkness, led by the scent of his skin, and slept again by his side. Once Mila and Ashok had woken, their hands still clasped, their ankles still touching, they had wanted that very instant to go home.

It took them less than an hour to rouse the servants, pack their belongings into the jeep, and drive out into the gloom, toward Rudrakot. As they fumbled and bumped their way over the rocks and the dirt, the night train passed by in the distance, its clean, hooting whistle blasting across to them. Was it only one day, no, two days ago that he had taken that train into the kingdom? Sam thought. How much had happened since; the days had stretched into an eternity.

Then in two hours, when the sun was blazingly hot, the first jeep collapsed on the road, spewing puffs of steam in all directions. Thirty minutes later, the second jeep overheated.

They limped into Rudrakot a little past noon, tired, irritable, and hungry. As Sam turned the jeep into the half-moon driveway of Raman's house, Mila put a hand on his arm and said, "Do stop here, Captain Hawthorne. Vimal will get out now." Then she turned to him and said, "We've enjoyed your company. Quite enough. Thank you."

Vimal sighed theatrically, swung his legs over the side of the jeep, and jumped down. "I'm sure I'll see you all again. And you too, Captain Hawthorne," he said, raising his hand in a mock salute, "why, we are now old friends."

"Mila," Ashok said, and pointed to the front of their house.

A shining white Hispano-Suiza, the color of clotted cream, with gleaming bumpers and polished window glasses stood near the front door. It had a long and sleek running board clothed in black rubber, contrasting with the spokes on its white-walled tires, aglitter like silver. Sam leaned around the dusty windshield of the jeep and his breath stilled when he saw the car. It was a masterpiece of luxury, with persimmon-colored leather seats and a lengthy front bonnet under which, surely, reposed a V--
1
2 engine. Its top speed would be a hundred miles per hour and it would take a mere twelve seconds, a flicker of an eyelid, to reach sixty from a state of rest. You could drive those speeds in the desert, Sam thought, especially on the flat road that led to Chetak's tomb. Sam had only seen pictures of this car before and he was astounded by how gorgeous it actually was. A man leaned against the Suiza's front hood, his legs crossed at the ankles, arms laced near his waist. He was holding a swagger stick--in leather, knobbed in silver with the Lancers regimental badge carved on the head--and had it tucked under his armpit. He was dressed in crisp white to match the car; even his shirt buttons and his cufflinks were silver. Hi
s t
urban was white, and its sash swung over his shoulder and down his back. He had a dark and strong face, a well-trimmed mustache, an arrogant chin. He made no move toward them.

"Jai!" Ashok screamed, jumped out of the jeep, and pounded down the driveway.

Mila got out more slowly, stood for a minute by the jeep, and then began to run too. A few feet away, her footsteps slowed and she turned to Sam, her face miserable, her eyes bright with a hint of tears. She continued to walk backward, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her trousers so that her elbows jutted out. It was, for all its bravado, a vulnerable stance. She had left her hair loose after Sam had undone her plait the previous afternoon, but had worn a pink silk scarf around it during the drive back. Now she reached up to her head and with a graceful gesture pulled the scarf from her hair, so that it fell in a sweep of ebony around her shoulders.

She said, with the steadiest gaze upon his face yet, "Sam." A pause. "I'm going to marry him."

April 1942, a Month Earlier

Somewhere in
Burma

*

Where the hell is he going?" Sam hisses, raising his head. Ken has lifted himself and is plodding down the slope with great deliberation toward the plantation bungalow.

Sam glances at his watch. One hour to sunset; they've been here for four hours now. It's too early, there's still too much light, and the rain has stopped. Dammit.

"Ken," he calls.

But Ken just keeps on going, slip-sliding down now, dragging his shattered foot behind him. Sam shakes Marianne awake, scrambles to his feet, and plunges after Ken.

"Ken!" he calls again, in a voice that is little more than a whisper. He follows as fast as he can, ungainly and inept, his loaded haversack slowing him down. Ken is almost at the bottom of the hill by now. He begins to laugh and the sound fractures the silence around them. Sam slips off the straps of his haversack, flings it aside. If only he can get to Ken before anyone sees them or hears them. What an idiot he is, Sam thinks, tripping again and beginning to slide. His head bangs against a rock, but it does not slow his pace. He keeps falling, stars shattering before his eyes, until he comes to rest at Ken's feet.

"What?" Ken asks, grinning. "I want to get inside the damn bungalow, that's all."

Sam pushes himself up to stand on shaky legs. "You're going to get us all killed, you idiot."

"We've waited long enough, Sam. It's okay now."

From where he stands on the slope, Sam is below Ken, looking up at him. Ken sports a curiously self-satisfied expression. He seems to have forgotten his crushed ankle. Sam encounters that prickle of unease again, but his attention is distracted when the mud of the hillside loosens as Marianne picks her way down. The skin on her left cheek is patterned with the twigs and leaves that glued themselves to her face as she slept. She is disoriented, her eyes bleary with fatigue. She drags Sam's haversack behind her.

Ken starts to laugh, his teeth starkly white against the mud brown of his face.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Sam shouts, and slaps Ken with an open palm.

In the sudden quiet that follows, they all hear the sound of a door creaking open on unoiled hinges. Sam turns toward the bungalow. Fear stops his heart for a brief second and then his training kicks into gear and his hand drops to the .45 Colt in his belt holster. The front door is ajar, a scrabbling noise comes from within, and the three of them stare at the opening, frozen where they stand.

There is a gentle clucking, and then, a skinny little face with a pointed beak looks out from behind the door. A hen comes out into the front yard of the bungalow, continues its cluckings and nibbles industriously at the ground.

Sam almost dies. There is a hen in the bungalow. A hen. A chicken! He drops his hand from the pistol. Saliva inundates his mouth. His stomach cries out and his hands tremble with wanting.

He begins to pant and knows that Marianne and Ken are also gazing at the busy little hen with the same rapt attention. They all begin to laugh and shout. Food for dinner. Not scavenged cold rice, not ferns or berries. A cooked chicken. A roasted chicken perhaps. A plantation house will have a kitchen garden. They can wrap the meat in plantain leaves, garnish it with coriander, some mint, chilies even, and bury it in coals. Perhaps a few cloves of garlic, pungent with aroma. Now Sam gets greedy. He hopes there will be some ghee in the kitchen, just a few tablespoons, just enough milk fat to nib onto the chicken, to roast it golden and crisp, to keep the meat moist and flaky. He still has ten tablets of salt in his haversack; they are to replenish what he loses in sweat, but powdered, crushed, they could still substitute for table salt. He can use three for the chicken just to take the edge off of bland and give it some taste. Oh, how is his stomach even going to adjust to this feast after all these days of near starving? Neither of their last two supply drops has come through, for eac
h t
ime they had made it to the meeting points, they had heard the drone of Japanese aircraft close by; it would have been madness for the RAF planes--or the ones from the AVG, the American Volunteer Group, of which Ken is a part--to come by with their food.

Sam, Marianne, and Ken wrap arms around each other, a triangle of hands on waists and shoulders, heads bent and touching at their tips, matted hair mingling. They rub cheeks. Their tears mingle with their laughter, curve around the widest parts of their mouths.

The sharp retort of a rifle fissures the air. Their voices still. Oh shit, Sam thinks, as his mind roves over his body--arms, shoulders, back, legs. There is a burning on his back, on his shins, but that is an old sensation, leech wounds not yet healed. His head is surely all right or his mind would have been blown away and could not travel over his limbs. He feels no pain. His grip tightens on Marianne and Ken, propping them up. He nudges their heads with his, hears no sound from them, no more laughter, not even a whimper. All of this happens in a few seconds and Sam feels a huge wash of relief. His fingers slacken. They are all right too. They still stand.