Waiting for the Monsoon (45 page)

Charlotte was about to say something, but Madan shrugged his shoulders.

“What family do you come from?”

Again, Madan shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you saying that because I'm down and out, without a cent to my name?”

The two men looked each other in the eye, for a long time and without moving. They never blinked.

Charlotte felt uncomfortable and busied herself folding up the khaki material.

“She's a widow,” the general muttered. “Has she told you that? And I've kept her here, supposedly to protect her, but that wasn't the reason. She had to care for me, wipe my bottom, because I didn't want some nurse or other to do it, and cut my toenails and massage my legs with oil, and if a man came anywhere near her, I used every weapon I could find — I couldn't bear the thought that she might leave me. She did once, went off to the Himalayas, and when she came home she did nothing but cry, and I can't abide women who cry, it's enough to make you sick, women in general, I've never understood them, but you have my blessing.”

“Father! Stop! He's the new tailor.”

Her father glared at her. “I don't know whether you ruined your eyes with all that snivelling, but this nobleman is in love with you, and if you can't see that, you're blind.” He closed his mouth with a snap and shut his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.

THE KEY GRATED
when she turned it. She was afraid to look at him. The candle in the holder was almost out, and she went over to the crate to get a new one. She lit it and pressed it into the soft, hot wax. The chandelier, which Hema had pulled back up to the ceiling, hung there like a forgotten crown.
Do you suppose they ever burned that many candles in this hall?
She looked over the balustrade, and remembered that as a little girl she used to peek down at her parents. The images of dancing soldiers in gala uniforms and ladies in floor-length gowns returned, like the scent of her mother's perfume and the lively music. Madan, who appropriated portions of her memories, bent down and picked up a handful of candles from the box, lighted them, and placed them, one by one, along the edge of the balustrade, one in a recess in the wall, and another on a narrow shelf against the wall. Charlotte grinned and grabbed a handful of candles. Walking down the stairs, she put a burning candle on each step. Downstairs she placed more candle stubs on the ledges where statues had once stood, and on the windowsills and the marble floor. The darkness in which the house had so long been shrouded gradually disappeared. In the flickering candlelight, the bare landing and the dismantled hall regained something of their old glory. The clock sounded twelve stately strokes. Madan picked up the royal blue velvet fabric, threw it over his shoulders, and strode down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Charlotte bowed, and then ran up the stairs, pulled two brightly coloured lengths of fabric from the pile, and hung them over the balustrade. She then wrapped herself in pale green lace and, like Madan, strode regally down the stairs.

There was music in her head, which he, too, could hear: the tones of a long-forgotten orchestra enticing everyone onto the dance floor. They stood opposite each other and slowly began to move, circling around to the music that had been forgotten when the British troops departed.

Charlotte closed her eyes, surrendering to the tones in her head. She was floating on air. She felt his presence, how he sometimes took over the music, altered it, and then sent it back to her. The sounds of the past became the present, filling the great marble hall. Time passed without their hearing the clock: they were the music. They whirled and danced. The lace that enveloped her blew over the candles. The flames could not catch the gossamer fabric. She was young again. She was radiant.

Madan also danced with his eyes closed. His movements were much slower, more tentative. Her music was foreign to him but enticing. He was in a large ballroom, where huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the paintings on the walls were metres high. They danced together, surrounded by men in exotic outfits and women in costly saris.

They were one, without ever touching each other. Dong! The clock struck. She opened her eyes and looked up. Dong! The second chime sounded. Dong! And the third, after which it fell silent. She had no idea that they had been dancing for so long. She'd been in a different world. A world she'd forgotten, one that she thought existed only in dreams.

“You haven't chosen the material for my dress yet!” she called out, and then ran up the stairs and tossed the length of sea-green silk over the balustrade.

It fluttered down and, just in time, Madan managed to snatch it away from the flickering candle flame.

She laughed and threw down a piece of lavender silk, which fluttered like a butterfly, and again Madan pulled it away from the flames. One colour after the other descended. A shower of ultramarine, silver, orange, jade, ochre, violet, pink, golden yellow, russet, and sky blue. Laughing, he plucked them out of the air, like a juggler.

When the last one had reached the ground, she ran down the stairs and stood in front of him. “Which one are you going to use?”

He spread the lengths of silk out on the floor.
Red is the colour of passion and longing.

Charlotte could tell she was blushing.

Orange goes with young fruit and lends vitality and sexual power. Gold, of course, is success and wealth. Just as yellow stands for science, logic, and the intellect. Pale green, a field of grass after the first rain, signifies openness and anticipation. The green of old grass is the colour of nature and mortality. Turquoise is linked to spiritual consciousness, blue to the sky and all that is insubstantial. Indigo represents pure knowledge, and violet creates power and dignity.

“But what looks best on me?

Red.

The blush on her cheeks glowed. “There are so many different shades of red. Does each shade mean something different?”

Blood red signifies drama and cadmium distance; red ochre means warmth and vermillion titillation; magenta stands for dominance, carmine for lust, and scarlet for pure love.
He picked up several lengths of red cloth and laid them next to each other on the stairs.

“It's like a red carpet,” she giggled, trying to draw him away from the subject. “I'll make a canopy for you.” She gathered up some blue remnants from the floor. And each time a piece of fabric fell, she heard his voice
: blue-black, violet, azure, Delft blue, indigo, Prussian blue, lapis lazuli
. She tied the lengths of cloth to the banister, but her canopy was a failure. The remnants just slid away, and her creation collapsed as quickly as his red carpet had taken shape.

Madan began to laugh, noiselessly, but Charlotte heard him in her head. For an instant she felt insulted because he was laughing at her, for his laugh tumbled through her head. But when she looked at him, at his radiant eyes, she understood the unaccustomed laugh, which was full and pure. And she began to laugh herself. First a laugh with sound, as she was used to, but when she heard her laugh reverberating shrilly in the marble hall, she searched for the noiseless laugh in her head. It was a completely different laugh than she was used to.

They didn't hear the personnel door being opened, quickly closed, and then set ajar. Hema's mouth dropped when he saw memsahib and the
darzi
sitting on the staircase, with their mouths open in a laugh. For a split second he thought they were both suffering from stomach colic, but the hundreds of candles and the colourful remnants spread out all around them told him that there was something else going on. He wasn't sure whether he should knock to announce his arrival or just walk in and surprise them. He did neither.

He stole back to the kitchen, fervently wishing that he had never witnessed the scene. This was so terrible that he didn't even dare to tell the neighbours' butler about it. The idiocy that has taken possession of his employer would only degrade his position still further. He wouldn't say anything to anyone, not even the second junior assistant in the barbershop at the bottom of the hill, who told him a new joke every day, or the shopkeepers who let him buy on tick, or anyone else. He wanted to forget the whole thing and persuade himself that it had been a dream. He sank down on his mat and pulled the sheet over himself. What on earth were they doing? He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost four o'clock. The sun would be up soon, and then he'd have to boil the water for the tea. He hoped that nothing of what he had just witnessed would still be there. And that everything would be back to normal. If only that
darzi
would leave. He was the cause of all this misery . . .

THEY WERE SITTING
next to each other on the bottom step. All the remnants had been folded up and were in one big pile, with the scarlet red silk on top. For the first time that night, their thoughts were calm. There was no sense of shame. The uncertainties and unasked questions had disappeared. And the fear had gone. What remained was an openness they both experienced as blissful. The clock struck six. The last candle was still burning, and Charlotte blew it out. The sun was already above the horizon and would soon banish the memory of the night. Their eyes radiated joy. She smelled his scent and he hers. They looked at each other without blinking, aware that if they closed their eyes, the moment might simply disappear. They knew they had to say goodbye but tried to prolong the present. It mustn't end yet. She could imagine how his body felt, his face, his skin. He saw the colour of her eyes and her lips. His hand reached out to hers. Her fingers were extended. They wanted to be together forever.

A click. They heard the personnel door open. Their eyes gleamed.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” It was the voice of an Englishwoman.

They looked at each other in surprise. Only Hema, Madan, and Charlotte used the side door. Visitors always came to the front door.

Are you expecting anyone?

Charlotte wanted to answer his question in the negative, but her thoughts were spinning. She had expected Hema to bring the tea, which they would drink together. Then they would take the pile of fabric to the music room, and she would watch as he made her scarlet red dress. She had decided that she would never again be led by the glances of outsiders or by the foreign tongues that had determined her entire life and had brought her nothing but loneliness. She would no longer allow herself to be held back by shame, fear, or principles. She would hurt no one. She would go away with him, quietly. Leaving cowardice behind on the doorstep.

He heard her thoughts. Her release from fear had carried him along, raised him up, to a sensation that was new to him. His hesitation lay on his wings, ready to shake off, to fly away, to overstep boundaries, to go to places that had walls they could demolish brick by brick. It was the sparkle in her eyes and the laughter of her soul that had given him the courage to stand beside her, and he had done away with his shyness in her presence.

“Hal-lo!” said the voice impatiently.

He sensed that the courage that had seemed invincible was beginning to fade. He heard her thoughts becoming confused; she raised questions and barricades that had not existed a moment before.

Charlotte walked over to the side door and saw a young white woman, still a girl. She had a green fluorescent band over her red hair, which was sticking out in all directions. She was wearing a blue jacket and baggy, bright yellow silk trousers with an embroidered design, and dangling earrings.

“Are you looking for someone?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes, you.” the girl said.

“Me?”

“I'm Issy.”

“Issy?”

“Didn't you get my letter?” She heaved a sigh. “Nothing works here. I tried to call, but the thing doesn't work.”

“Letter?” said Charlotte, who in the past few weeks had received nothing but bills and letters from the bank, and had no idea who the girl was.

“It's awfully hot, isn't it? Do you have anything to drink?” She kicked off her shoes. “The trains here are fabulous. I travelled first class, I had to promise Daddy, since anything can happen in second and third class. I had a real bed and I slept really well, and at the station they knew exactly where I wanted to go. All I had to say was “Bridgwater House” and the rickshaw brought me here, but I think he took a detour since I've already seen half the city. Everything is so cheap, how do people make a living here? I don't understand why Daddy left, a person can easily live on a pound a day and that includes two hot meals, even though in this heat I'm not allowed to have ice cream, because Daddy said that even he doesn't do that when he's in India, they use dirty water, he says. I've already had diarrhea, the first couple of days, the man at the hotel in New Delhi even called a doctor and he gave me some medicine and it was gone in no time. I've got medicine for malaria as well, Granddad got malaria, too, during the war, it must be a horrible disease since it stays with you all your life.”

“Are you Isabella, my niece?”

“I don't answer to that horrid name anymore.” The look on her face and the gesture of contempt spoke volumes. “My new name is Issy.”

Madan, who until then had been out of her field of vision, had picked up the pile of fabric and was heading for the music room, with his head bowed.

“Hi!” she called out and then, in a lower voice, “Is that the butler?”

Charlotte wanted to say that he was the man she loved, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, the gift that had unexpectedly been thrown into her lap, and that her life had begun last night. But she said nothing. Madan, who was used to looking away when he saw a woman he didn't know, especially a white woman, was blissfully happy until he heard her say, “No, that's Mukka. He's the tailor.”

“Oh, he can make something for me, too. Everything is so frumpy here, this is all I could find. In my travel guide it says that you should buy all your clothes in India because everything is so cheap, but they don't tell you that everyone walks around in tent dresses or saris. I've been wearing the same clothes for two days. Can I go to the toilet? The one in the train was filthy and there was no toilet paper anywhere, would you believe it — the first-class carriage has clean sheets but no clean WC. I had to hold my pee all night, at one point we stopped at a station and I was going to go behind a hoarding, but what if the train left without me? Did you know that men and little kids all pee alongside the rails?”