Waiting for the Monsoon (50 page)

“Is your glass empty?”

“I wouldn't mind some more.”

“Later on.”

CHARLOTTE DIALLED THE
number. By now she knew it by heart. The raucous voice at the other end did not give his name. She did, although with some hesitation. She knew that if she sold the watch, there would be a great many problems.

“I thought you didn't have anything left?” snapped the man she disliked so intensely. “Only if it's something valuable, otherwise I'm not interested.”

He hung up before she could reply.

Her niece was lying on the sofa, panting from the heat. Her father was asleep, and even the sewing machine was silent. Was Madan, too, finally floored by the lethargy that had overcome everyone? She tiptoed to the coat rack, put on her wide-brimmed straw hat, went to the front door, and slipped outside. Just as she pulled the door gently shut, she saw the black car that belonged to the wife of Nikhil Nair turn into the driveway. Her first impulse was to go back into the house and call Hema, to receive the ladies. But whether it was the sleepless night and the dance of love or the fact that she'd had her fill of the club ladies and their eternal gossiping, she ran down the steps and quickly hid under the branches of a withered Christmas rose that stood in the shadow of the house. She saw how the wife of Nikhil Nair alighted from the car, immediately followed by the wife of Ajay Karapiet. She heard one of them whisper that the ancient butler would probably serve those same old cookies that looked expensive but were actually cheap, that it would be a miracle if there were enough chairs to go around, that she couldn't understand why they remained in that enormous house since everyone could see that they were living beyond their means, and that . . . Charlotte did indeed wish that Hema weren't so old and that he could get to the door faster. And she didn't enjoy being told that last night her father's cries of distress could be heard at the bottom of the hill, and that people wondered what else was happening in the enormous house, and that when it came to the Bridgwaters, they never knew what to expect . . .

The door opened, and Isabella sounded surprised as she explained that she had just seen her aunt leave the house, and that they should have passed each other on the path. Then the girl stuck her head out the door and shouted Charlotte's name as loudly as she could. Charlotte ducked farther under the shrub and pulled her hat down over her face. They mustn't find her. Not now, not here. She heard Isabella let the women into the house, saying that she'd go and call the tailor. The door slammed shut with a bang. Charlotte thought to herself,
Hema may be old, but at least he knows how to shut a door properly.

Charlotte looked at a fat beetle sitting on a twig. The heat didn't seem to bother him, even though he had a very thick coat. She wondered if he was ever afraid. She'd like to be able to hide under a big wing case the way he did, so that no one could see her. The beetle shook his gleaming wings and continued to walk along the twig, taking tiny steps. It was the sudden golden lustre of the beetle's case that made her reach into her pocket for the watch. Would her father already have missed it, would he have had another tantrum, and whom would he accuse this time? She ought to tell Hema, since otherwise he might suspect her niece or “that
darzi
,” as he referred to him with unmistakable disdain. It had surprised her that Isabella also found him handsome; the girl was at least thirty years younger than the tailor and ought to be interested in boys her own age. The thought disturbed her as she sat there, half hidden by the shrub. That youthful interest might have evoked certain feelings in Madan, just like the winter rose that blossoms fiercely after each monsoon. The likelihood of rivalry was not merely an illusion, it was fed by the searing torpor of the climate and the loneliness of the house. All things considered, she was no more than an older woman who stole from her father to make a good impression on her niece by buying a drink she herself had never tried. An older woman who hid under a shrub to escape the hungry eyes of two notorious gossips because she was afraid that they could tell by looking at her that she had fallen in love with the dark-skinned tailor who had to pay for a workplace in her father's house and whom she allowed to work in the music room because that way he was closer to her . . . Could anything be more pathetic? What was happening to her? Why didn't she tell her niece that there was no money, that the furniture had been removed not for aesthetic reasons but so that they could continue to eat, and that she, like any woman, wanted to look beautiful at the party, but that there was no money for fabric, and that she had again been forced to rob her father of the last memories of his wife in order to indulge her own desires. Why didn't she tell her niece that she was so ablaze that she feared the bush would catch fire if she were to sit under it too long, and that — although they had never even exchanged a kiss — she was convinced that she had already lost him . . .

The beetle was creeping up the trunk. A bit farther on, Charlotte saw another beetle. Was the second beetle his wife? Or was that her husband? Were they together? Were they relatives? Lovers? Did they have secrets from each other? The beetle climbed higher and higher, and it was as if the other beetle was looking down over the edge of the branch, waiting for it to reach the top. Could beetles kiss? How did beetles make love? Didn't their wing cases get in the way? Charlotte sat stock still. Holding her breath, she watched as, step by step, the tiny creature climbed higher. Defiantly, almost provocatively, it drew closer and closer to the other beetle. Mesmerized, Charlotte forgot about the suffocating heat as she waited to see what would happen. He had almost reached the other beetle. They looked at each other.
Come on! Don't give up now!
The beetle took another step. Charlotte felt an urge to push the tiny insect toward the other beetle. They faced each other.
Love her!
He took another step and their heads were almost touching. Then out of nowhere she heard a rustling sound. Charlotte froze. But before she could think about what it might be, a crow swooped into view among the leaves, picked up one of the beetles from the branch, and flew off. The remaining beetle cowered and closed its case. Charlotte also cowered, with her head between her knees and her arms around her head. She wished she'd never listened to the women at the club, who had convinced her to take him into her house, she wished she had never seen him, had never let him move from the servants' quarters to the music room. She wished she hadn't danced with him, hadn't let him look into her heart. Again she heard a rustling among the leaves and hoped that the crow would devour the other beetle as well, so at least they'd be together.

What's wrong?

Charlotte looked up, startled. Through her tears she saw his face among the withered leaves of the winter rose.

You're crying. What happened?

There was a bird.

Just a bird?

A crow. It ate the beetle.

Was it a special beetle?

No, just a tiny beetle, an insect.

Had you seen the beetle before?

No, it was the first time I saw him.

And he was eaten by the crow?

Yes, just as he was about to kiss his wife.

A broad smile appeared on Madan's face.

“
CAN YOU REALLY
call anywhere?” The wife of Nikhil Nair and the wife of Ajay Karapiet gazed in admiration at the device in Issy's hand.

“It has to be charged, the battery is low. In the store they said it would last around two hours, but it seems to me it went down much faster. Anyway, once it's recharged, I can call you from the garden.”

“From the garden! Did your aunt give you our numbers?” asked the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who loved talking on the phone.

“No, of course not, but it sure would be convenient if Aunt Charlotte had one. Then I could call her and she could answer, even if she was sitting in a taxi.”

“In a taxi!”

The two ladies sighed. They were overwhelmed by the unexpected presence of the girl, as well as by her clothes, which left little to the imagination, the unkempt ponytail on the top of her head, and the fact that she was sitting on the sofa and didn't even invite them to sit down. She chattered on about how she had made a phone call while she was sitting in a rickshaw in New Delhi and that the driver was so startled he almost ran into a cow. The wife of Nikhil Nair gestured to her friend to sit down unasked. She was thirsty and tried not to look at the large glass of Coca-Cola in front of the girl. She was annoyed that the old butler had not arrived to offer them a cup of tea, and she regretted not having finished her glass of cold lemon water before hastily getting into the car.

“I have absolutely no idea where she's got to,” Issy said. “She was just going out the door when you two arrived, so it's odd that you didn't see her. She left only a couple of minutes before. I couldn't imagine why she'd want to go outside in this heat, I'd probably just melt, and what I'd really like to do is take off all my clothes and lie down under the fan. She didn't say when she'd be back.”

“That's quite all right,” said the wife of Ajay Karapiet, putting a good face on it. But she was shocked at the very thought of the girl taking off all her clothes.

“Actually, we came to see the tailor.”

“Oh, you want him to make clothes for you, too? I don't know where he's got to, I told him he ought to go on strike, it's much too hot to work.” Issy laughed when she saw the ladies' shocked faces. “He'll be back, he's so serious. This morning he was working on a purple blouse, a terrific colour but too dark for me, and I asked him if he'd make something for me out of a piece of red silk.”

“Oh, are you coming to the gala too?”

“Gala?”

“Yes, the New Rampur Club is celebrating its bicentennial with a huge gala. All the dignitaries from the surrounding districts will be there, and even the state minister for sport and recreation has promised to attend,” said the wife of Nikhil Nair, conjuring up a mental picture of how jealous all the other ladies would be when she appeared in her splendid new pink outfit. She'd wear her black shoes, the ones with the really high heels, and a tiara with ten genuine diamonds in her hair.

“Oh,” said Issy as she reached for her glass of Coca-Cola.

The two women looked at each other in bewilderment. Although the tickets for the gala had sold out within a week, they would probably have made an exception, since she was Charlotte's niece and the granddaughter of the oldest member. But the girl seemed singularly uninterested.

The wife of Nikhil Nair stood up. “We must be going, otherwise it'll be too late. Would you ask the tailor to deliver the clothes today or tomorrow morning at the latest?” She motioned to her friend, but she was staring at the girl as she downed her Coca-Cola. “Shall we be off then?” she repeated impatiently. Her friend was not listening. The wife of Nikhil Nair gave an angry cough and headed for the door.

It was only then that the wife of Ajay Karapiet realized what was expected of her, and reluctantly rose from the sofa. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to listen to this exotic young girl's stories.

“Shall I give you my phone number?” she asked.

The wife of Nikhil Nair looked at her friend in amazement.

“I'd love to get a call from that special telephone of yours.”

Charlotte and Madan heard the ladies come down the front steps. The chauffeur had already started the engine, but it was still clear that the two women were arguing.

They want their dresses
, Charlotte giggled.

They're not finished yet.

I thought they were ready to be picked up.

Not quite. I'm waiting.

For what?

Rain.

Rain? But we have water, don't we?

Not enough.

They looked up at the sky through the withered branches. There wasn't a cloud to be seen. It felt good to be sitting next to him, looking up at the sky together. If only she could make time stand still until the first drops began to fall.

It can't be long now.

On the radio they've been predicting rain for two weeks
, said Charlotte, as if it was perfectly normal to converse by means of thought rather than speech.

We have to show the rain that it's welcome.

So, you believe in rain dances, too?
Charlotte pulled a dry leaf from the Christmas rose; it immediately crumbled under her fingers.

Not a dance — just a sign, a signal.

What kind of sign?

Buckets.

Charlotte began to laugh — as if the monsoon could be seduced by a bunch of buckets!

It works. Really.

“If you say so,” she said aloud. But she was actually thinking
no
, and he heard that, too.
I should be going
, she thought.

Are you going to sell it?

Charlotte looked at him in surprise. She felt the watch in her hand, but she was certain that she hadn't been thinking about it. Only the money problems had briefly crossed her mind. How could he know that?

You were thinking about it
.

I wasn't thinking about it. We were talking about rain and buckets, not his watch.

You were thinking about it before. When you told me about your niece.

You mean you can understand more than I'm aware of?

I don't know how I could have heard it, but I heard it.

“I must be off.” She crept out from under the bush, brushed the dust and the leaves from her dress, adjusted her sun hat, and walked briskly down the hill. She didn't want him to read any more of her thoughts.