Waiting for the Monsoon (49 page)

Madan saw that he had again put the bust seam in wrong but didn't want to unpick the thread while the girl was in the room, so he continued to sew slowly.

“I didn't know my aunt was such a slave driver. In England, the Union of Tailors — if there is such a thing — would have forbidden their members to work in this heat. I'd go on strike, if I were you,” she panted, as the scorching sun poured into the room. “She can't really expect it of you? Isn't there a pool somewhere around here, so I can go swimming? I haven't had my bikini on since I got here.” Issy's eyes slowly became accustomed to the glaring light. Although Madan was roughly the same age as her maths teacher, she saw that he was quite handsome. “Have you ever seen that actor?” she asked, as she moved closer to him. “You know, the one who plays the lead in
The Buddha of Suburbia
? You look a lot like him. Did you know that? His hair is longer, but if I saw you on the street, I would swear that you were him.”

Madan, who understood only snatches of what she said, wished fervently that she would go away. He was anxious to take the material out from under the foot and start over.

“Do you take photos of the clothes you make?” She watched as he turned the wheel. “I don't want a dumb thing like this.” She pointed to the blue jacket she was wearing. “I want something super, something really special that nobody else has.”

That jacket
, Madan thought,
it's the same kind of blue jacket . . .

“Miss Isabella, Charlotte memsahib is looking for you.” Hema had appeared out of nowhere, since he had the gift of being able to move noiselessly when he wanted to.

“Please, call me Issy, and where is Auntie slave driver?” Issy smiled at Hema. “I'll ask her to give you the day off, then we can go swimming somewhere.”

“Memsahib is in the drawing room.”

The girl left the room and Hema's expression changed. The smile disappeared from his face, making way for a furious glance in Madan's direction. Grumbling under his breath, he went over to the open windows, closed the shutters and windows, and drew the curtains. Then he slammed the door of the music room, leaving Madan behind in the sweltering heat.

“Why do you make that man work in such a dark, stuffy room?”

“The monsoon should have started ages ago, and the house stays cooler with the shutters closed.”

“You can't force someone to go on working.”

“I'm not forcing him.”

“But he is working.”

“That's his choice.”

“I asked him if he would make something for me. Something snazzy. That's all right, isn't it?” Before Charlotte could reply, she continued: “Actually, he's a bit of a hunk. He looks like the guy who plays the lead in that TV series. I told him so, but I don't think he has a TV. Do you happen to have a wall plug socket?” Issy reached into her bag and pulled out a bunch of electrical cords. “So I can charge my telephone.”

“Your what?”

“My mobile phone. Yeah, neat, isn't it? A present from Dad. It's the latest thing and really expensive, but he wanted to be able to reach me. He wasn't keen on my travelling alone, so he bought one for me. But everything's gone really well: I've met nothing but friendly people. Where's the wall socket?”

Charlotte had heard of mobile phones but had never seen one, and she gazed in fascination at the device her niece was holding. “Can you call any number in the world?”

“Not America, but it should work in India and Thailand. I tried to call here, but no luck. I thought maybe your phone was down, but I just checked it and it was working. So it's probably the battery, it's almost empty. Dad took out a special subscription. He said I'd have to pay it back later, but that's ridiculous. After all, it was his idea, wasn't it, and — hey, here's another outlet.”

“Are you going to Thailand, too?” Charlotte asked. There was a hint of relief in her voice.

“If I feel like it, but it's fun here, I've never lived in such a big house with a butler, can I just call him if I need something?”

Charlotte, who was already perspiring profusely, felt a tightness in her throat, and a trickle of sweat began to run down between her breasts. She mumbled, “I'll ask him if he can help you with the cords.”

“If he knows how it all works, he's so old. And where is Grandpa?”

Charlotte felt the watch burning a hole in her pocket. She had hoped the conversation would not turn to Father. Although she had written that he was becoming very forgetful, she had never told Donald just how much he had deteriorated, and that they now had to secure him to the wheelchair. That had been Hema's idea, after Father had fallen for the second time, fully convinced that he could walk. Now they also tied him down at night, since that same conviction led him to get out of bed if he had to pee or wanted something to drink. He categorically refused to sleep on a mattress on the ground: that's what the inlanders did, but not the general.

When he was fastened to the chair, he often thought it was wartime. In the beginning he had had terrible crying bouts, which always ended in an onslaught of rage, when he'd grab anything that was at hand and throw it at his daughter. One day he picked up a vase, one of the few heirlooms to survive their growing poverty, and threw it at her. The instant the vase grazed her head was the last straw for Charlotte. When it hit the wall and shattered, she had screamed that things could not continue as they were, and that he would have to go. But there was no money to place the old soldier in a house for demented pensioners, and returning to England was not an option. So the wheelchair was fitted with extra straps to anchor his arms, and Charlotte continued to nurse him. She had suspended her search for a cheaper house. Not only did her father refuse to sign the papers, but no one was interested in purchasing the enormous but dilapidated villa.

“He's asleep,” Charlotte said to her niece. “It's best not to wake him up.”

“Does he still have that huge moustache? We were afraid of his moustache. Dad told us that you both thought it was scary when you were little, and by the way, I never wore the baby cape that you knitted for me when I was born. Mama said it was ugly, but Elsa, my doll, wore it a lot. I can't throw that doll away, even now that I'm grown up.” Issy put her feet up on the table and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “You've gotten rid of a lot of stuff, haven't you? In the old photos there are big pieces of furniture all over the place and a grand piano. Can't we open the window, I'm suffocating. How can you stand this heat? Why don't you buy air conditioners? We have air conditioning and it's great, you'd never think that Dad was born in India, he doesn't like the heat, he likes rain.”

Charlotte got up and turned the fan over their heads to the highest setting.

“Don't they have rain dances here, like the Indians? Did you know that the pharaohs in Egypt had them, too? I heard that from my mother's brother, he writes travel guides. When he hears about the stupid old guide that I have with me, he'll probably come over next year and write a better one. He's so much fun and he always takes me out to dinner in famous restaurants, did you know that London has great Indian restaurants, they're supposed to be even better than here, I've heard.” She waved the panels of her jacket back and forth, but when she saw her aunt's shocked expression, she buttoned up the jacket with a sigh. “Can't we ask the butler to do a rain dance?” She giggled at the thought. “We can't just sit around waiting for that . . . that monsoon. It's really too, too hot.”

Charlotte stood up and rang the bell.

“Are you going to ask him?”

“No, he's too busy, but I'll have him bring you something to drink.”

“Do you have Coca-Cola? As long as it's not tea again, everyone drinks nothing but tea here, but in this heat it makes me feel even hotter, just like the spicy food, it really makes you sweat.”

With a sigh, Hema put the jerry cans down on the kitchen counter. His legs were trembling and his back ached after carrying the heavy load. As he trudged up the hill, he kept asking himself why he wasn't peevish when the girl used the five-day supply of drinking water to take a bath. He told himself that it was because she was Charlotte memsahib's niece. But deep in his heart he knew that it was for quite a different reason that he went around whistling all day, something he hadn't done since his teenage years.

The bell sounded. He picked up the tray and almost danced up to the big house. In the hall he bumped into memsahib, who immediately put a forefinger to her mouth.

“Do you know where they sell Coca-Cola?” Charlotte whispered.

“At the bottom of the hill,” he whispered back.

“Will you get me a bottle? My niece drinks Coca-Cola.”

Hema hesitated, the tray still in his hands.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't buy on credit there.”

Charlotte fished her wallet out of her pocket. She almost dropped the watch, but managed to shove it back in.

“How much does a bottle cost?”

“A large bottle or a small one, memsahib?”

“Large . . . she'll be here for a few days.”

Hema beamed. “Not much, memsahib, not much.”

“How much?”

“About the same as two packages of fancy cookies.”

“What?” She forgot they were whispering. “Two packages!”

Hema nodded with conviction.

“Can't you get the price down any further?”

“Not at the bottom of the hill, memsahib, maybe in the centre.”

“Auntie,” called a voice from the salon, “ask him if he can bring along a chocolate bar!”

Hema looked at Charlotte, who sighed, nodded, and resolved to sell the watch today.

MADAN SENSED THE
unrest that hung in the house, and he knew that this time it wasn't caused by him, but by the girl. After Hema had gone off in search of Coca-Cola for the lowest possible price and a chocolate bar, he had heard Charlotte going up the stairs. He was glad she didn't come into the music room. He wanted to be alone. His thoughts shot off in all directions, and after that sudden recollection of his sister in her blue coat, he'd made one mistake after the other. He unpicked the entire blouse destined for the wife of the manufacturer of coconut oil, and when he made yet another mistake, he put the cap over the machine and went outside.

The rays of the sun pierced his back. Even in the shade of the withered trees, there was no relief from that fiery heavenly body. It was not often that he thought about his sister and wondered whether he had any other brothers and sisters. There were vague memories of a scene long ago in which there were a great many adults and children around him, but it wasn't clear to him whether it was indoors or outdoors. He did remember awakening in the arms of a white woman. She smelled like jasmine and she kissed him. His sister was crying, and when he tried to console her, she got angry. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, but it must have been something serious, since she was so furious that she left him standing there, amidst all those men's legs, and never even turned around.

He walked down the hill, crossed the road, and went down a street with houses. The sun was nowhere near its pinnacle, but already there was almost no shade. The only protection came from a large banner stretched across the road with a picture of the building that housed the New Rampur Club and in giant numerals the number “
200
.”

The gala was two days away and the dresses were almost finished. But all of them still needed the finishing touch: an open seam here, a loose hem there. When he was finished, he would have to move on, but he tried not to think about that.

In the distance he heard the fire engine siren, a sound that had become more and more frequent now that the monsoon was so long in coming. A rickshaw passed him at high speed, with Hema sitting in the back. He was cradling a large bottle of Coca-Cola in his arms as if it were a baby, and gazing at it fondly.

~~~

THE WIFE OF
Nikhil Nair filled her glass with cold lemon water. “That tailor isn't anywhere near finished,” she sighed, and fell back into the cushions, panting.

“Oh,” said the wife of Ajay Karapiet, as she took a pair of glittering black evening shoes from their box and showed them to her friend. “These are the ones.”

“I thought you were going to wear the gold mules.”

“I like these better.”

“Have you tried them under the dress?”

“No, he still has to do the hem.”

“That's just what he told me.” There was disbelief in the voice of the wife of Nikhil Nair.

The wife of Ajay Karapiet looked dubiously at her new shoes. “You just might be right. The gold mules are probably better.”

“Priya hasn't gotten her dress back either, and Deepa called to say that he was still working on her collar. Isn't that a bit strange?”

“The only thing is . . . the black ones are more comfortable.”

“Do you know if Harita already has her dress?”

“Harita's going to wear gold shoes, too, but with a much higher heel. I can't do that, of course, not with my back.”

“Does she have her dress already?”

“Well, she's tried it on, and it fits like a glove.”

“But could she take it home with her?”

The wife of Ajay Karapiet hesitated and then shrugged her shoulders. “Kalpana doesn't have hers either. I talked to her this morning. She was quite taken with these shoes.”

“Kalpana as well!” The wife of Nikhil Nair pushed the cushions out of her way and got to her feet. Despite the air conditioning, she was still warm. “And apparently Mandira's in the same boat. It's only two days until the party, and we still have to choose our accessories.”

“Which shoes are you going to wear?”