Waiting for the Monsoon (51 page)

Hema was surprised to see his memsahib crawl out from under the Christmas rose. He knew that she secretly mowed the lawn, so she wouldn't have to pay a gardener, but he was unaware that she also pruned the bushes. He took a step backwards, so as not to embarrass her, and watched as she walked quickly down the hill. Seconds later he saw the tailor crawl out from under the same shrub, and it gave him such a fright that he started to choke, even though there was nothing in his mouth. He was overcome by a fit of coughing.

Madan heard him and realized that they'd been caught. He was furious with himself. He should never have gone to her, under the bush. He should have taken himself to hand when he heard her whispered thoughts under the branches. Her thoughts were not intended for him. He would have to leave. He must not stay, for whenever he thought he'd found happiness, it all went wrong.

HIS STOMACH RUMBLES
.
He's had nothing to eat since the apple he stole yesterday. He knocks, and on hearing a voice, he pushes the door open. An old woman is sitting at a table in the corridor. Her hands are resting on a rusty metal box in front of her. He shows her a piece of paper. For weeks he has shown it to anyone who was willing to read it. She glances at the paper, shakes her head, and clutches the box tightly. He walks back outside and pulls the door shut. Slowly he continues on his way. He knocks on the next door and waits patiently. When no one comes, he walks to the following door. Again he knocks. He hears a thumping noise and the door opens. He sees a man with a long beard before him. Madan hands him the piece of paper. “I can't read. What do you want?”

Madan motions that he can't speak. Before he can make it clear that he's looking for work, the man closes the door in his face. The note flutters to the ground. Madan picks it up and continues on his way. His stomach rumbles.

~~~

HE'S STANDING IN
front of the station. An endless stream of people pass by. No one looks at him. He hasn't shaved in months and his hair has never been this long. His trousers are in tatters, his shoes were stolen while he was asleep, and the shirt — once his showpiece, made from a length of costly silk — is torn and filthy. It's the moment he has always dreaded. He and Abbas managed to escape this fate because there were two of them and they were fast on their feet. And later Ram Khan, Brother Francis, Mister Patel, Chandan Chandran, and Dr. Krishna gave him work and a roof over his head. He doesn't want to, but he has no choice. Very slowly he raises his hand.

He doesn't dare look at the passers-by. He sees nothing but shoes, slippers, and the hems of fluttering saris filing past. No one stops. They're all in a hurry. They're on their way to their work, their house, their family, their wife, their children. They have goals, a destination. In his head, their footsteps sound like music played in the wrong key. He wishes he were deaf and blind as well, so he couldn't see and hear that other people are happy. He wishes he were dead.

A pair of feet in worn brown leather slippers stop in front of him, and he feels a coin being placed in his hand. He looks up. The young man is gone. He wishes he could speak. He would have said “thank you.”

MADAN NEEDED CRUSHED
mimosa petals to finish the dress intended for the wife of Nikhil Nair. He had decided to make a dress that would emphasize her fragility. For the wife of the secretary, who rarely attended club functions for fear of somehow interfering with her husband's work, he would add teak tree blossoms, so that her husband would take more notice of her. For the unassuming wife of the commissioner, he had chosen the cinnamon tree, and for the woman who had begun to stoop after losing her only son, he would use a mix of dried forget-me-nots and marigold roots. He had manipulated the bust seam of the dress destined for the wife of the manufacturer of coconut oil. The dress would make a new woman of her, once he had rubbed ground petunia seeds into the fabric on which her well-formed bosom would rest. He was still searching for the stamens of a wild orchid for the dress of the wife of Ajay Karapiet. He needn't worry about what he would add to Charlotte's dress. From the day he arrived at the house on the hill, he had watered the plants he needed, and in some cases, he had carefully dried them. The other things he needed were found during his visits to the market. These included not only the powder made from young rose thorns mixed with the juice of the pomegranate, but also the bark of the apple tree, and the newly opened petals of the jasmine. He'd had to wait for the fabric to which the niece now laid claim. He had concealed his collection in the old
mali
's shed, one of the few spots never visited by the factotum, who was convinced that it was haunted by the old man's spirit. Madan, who also believed in spirits but had never seen any sign of the old
mali
, turned the collar of the dress of the wife of the goldsmith and used his thumb to flatten the dried freesia petals before sliding the fabric under the needle again. He was almost finished.

She'll understand.

He turned the wheel of the machine and the fabric released a subtle scent.

She knows that it's impossible.

He was turning the wheel faster than was good for the collar. The material shot underneath the needle, and some of the freesia petals were folded double.

It's the only solution.

He pulled the collar out from under the needle and saw that it was slightly puckered. With the palm of his hand he pressed down hard on the fabric in an effort to smooth it out.

Not only for me, but for her as well.

Madan was becoming entangled in his own thoughts and emotions. He again put the collar under the foot of the sewing machine and gave the wheel a firm shove. The needle broke.

ISSY HAD SEEN
her aunt go into the upstairs room once, and the butler had gone in twice. They unlocked the door using the key that hung on the wall. For years she and her father had watched episodes of
Agatha Christie's Poirot
on TV, and now the detective in her began to stir. She wanted to know what was hidden in that room.

When she heard the personnel door close, she stole upstairs on tiptoe and lifted the key from its hook. She felt as if she were in a movie. She was struck by the decor in the gigantic, dilapidated colonial house. There was a huge chandelier draped in cobwebs; above it rays of sunlight forced their way through the skylight, the worn stairs gleamed from years of beeswax, the walls bore the outline of paintings that had hung there, and on the landing stood a huge grandfather clock. She cocked her ears, but outside of the humming of the sewing machine, there were no sounds that suggested the presence of other people. Carefully she turned the key. In Agatha Christie novels such rooms always contained a dead body: someone murdered with an antique letter opener or a razor-sharp ice pick. The door creaked. The room was dim, like the rest of the house, and it smelled like the toilets next to the bicycle shed at school. She pushed the door open a little farther.

“I'm asleep,” said a man's voice.

She started. She'd imagined all sorts of things, but she never expected to hear a human voice. For an instant, she thought of her grandpa, but he wouldn't be kept under lock and key, which meant that there was a prisoner in the house.

“Go away and close the door.”

Because Poirot never followed orders, she crept inside, closed the door, and remained motionless. She was afraid to breathe. She could hear wheezing sighs and the rotation of the fan overhead.

“I want to sleep,” he said again. “Go away.”

Issy stood without moving a muscle. She heard the man stir. His breathing was faster now and the gasping was becoming worse. She regretted entering the room — what if the man turned on her? Of course he was dangerous; otherwise, he wouldn't have been locked up. But the noises weren't coming any closer.

“Hands up or I'll shoot.”

Her heart stood still. The first thought that went through her mind was:
He's going to kill me
. The second thought — as her heart started to beat again — was:
Don't anyone tell Daddy!
At the airport, he had taken her aside and said in a serious voice that he counted on her not to place herself in dangerous situations. “Go to Rampur,” he said. “You'll be safe there.” Issy sensed that the prisoner had a gun and night-vision binoculars aimed at her, and that he could see her. She raised her arms in surrender and didn't move a muscle. She heard a click, a sound familiar from films: the cocking of a gun.

“I surrender,” she stammered.

“Turn on the light,” the man snarled.

Issy had no idea where the light switch was, but ran her hand cautiously across the wall next to the door. She was so scared that she wouldn't have been surprised if she were suddenly bitten by a snake.

“What's taking you so long?”

“I can't find the light switch.”

“It's next to the door.”

In that same instant she found the switch and turned the light on. She had expected to see the murderer sitting in a leather armchair with a loaded rifle in his lap, but the man she saw was almost naked and had large scars. He was sitting in a wheelchair. There were leather bands around his lower legs and lower arms, and he was holding a bottle with a nipple. The man blinked: the sudden light bothered him. Behind him, on all the walls, hung the heads of dead animals.

“Mathilda?” There was uncertainty in his voice.

“My name is Issy.”

“Not Mathilda?” He peered at her.

“No, I'm Issy. Issy Bridgwater.”

“Bridgwater! Are you a Bridgwater?”

“Yes.”

“Victor Bridgwater, lieutenant colonel, Fourteenth Regiment, Seventh Batallion, reporting!” He straightened his back. She noticed that the leather bands limited his movements but that he was still able to move his hands and lower arms.

“I think I'm your granddaughter.” She said it hesitantly, since she couldn't believe that this strange man was really her grandfather.

“All the children are dead.”

“Well, I'm not dead.”

“You're not a child.”

“No, I'm not. I'm nineteen.”

The general stared at her in disbelief.

“I turned nineteen four weeks ago,” she said emphatically.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm on vacation.”

“Vacations are for losers.”

“I've finished school and this trip is my graduation present from my parents before I go to college.”

“Girls can't go to college. Where's my bedpan?”

Issy picked up the bedpan that was under the table and handed it to her grandfather.

“This one?”

He nodded but did not take it. “I'm hungry.”

“The butler said he's serving lunch at two o'clock.”

“He can't cook.”

“Oh.”

“Everything's nasty and revolting. Pure poison. No one can live on trash like that. I want meat. A big piece of meat. Venison, swine, or even beef. I haven't eaten in days. They're starving me, that's what they're doing: starving me until I tell them who I am.” Then his voice dropped. He spoke softly, looking around as if he was afraid someone was eavesdropping on him. “But I'm not going to tell them, not even if I have to bite off my little finger, I won't tell them, they'll never force me to give in. Not me. Never. I'm no coward!” He was panting.

It was not until then that Issy saw that there were also leather bands around his feet. “What are you doing here?” He had followed her gaze. “You see? I can't move, I'm tied down, they've chained me, they're afraid I'll escape, it's as if I'm an animal.”

Issy was shocked. She looked at the head of a tiger that hung on the wall behind him. It had murderous incisors, and she thought it looked a little like her grandfather.

“But I'll escape, I always manage to escape, they can't keep me here, not again, I'm not afraid, I won't tell them my name, not even if they cut out my tongue or shoot my eyes out of my head, like they did with the others.”

Issy took a step backwards. The only manacled prisoners she'd ever seen were on the confrontational Amnesty International posters that hung in the cafés near her school. Was it possible that her aunt and the butler had managed to handcuff him? Was he dangerous, and were they making sure he wouldn't escape? Or were there things happening in this house that had to be kept secret? Why was the door locked? Her father had explained to her that her grandfather's memory wasn't good, and she mustn't be surprised if he didn't immediately know who she was. But that he was being held prisoner and starved was something her father didn't know. She decided she would free him and help him escape. Or would it be better to wait until Aunt Charlotte came home and then confront her? Her grandfather was panting, visibly exhausted by his outburst. He brought the bottle to his lips and began to suck. Issy put down the pot, which she was still holding, and looked at the grey-haired old man. He was making loud sucking noises now. Although the wheelchair was positioned directly under the fan, his entire body was gleaming with sweat and the small bulb on the ceiling was encircled by tiny moths. Why didn't they go for walks with him? She wouldn't mind pushing the wheelchair, or cooking for him, she could make something he liked — she made great toasted cheese sandwiches. Maybe he'd like her to read aloud to him from a book or the newspaper. And she could ask the tailor to make a pair of trousers for him and she'd comb his hair. Old people who are forgetful sometimes enjoy singing children's songs, or she could tell him jokes and make him laugh. She'd never met her grandfather before, although she'd seen photos. She had always pictured him as tall and strong, and her father had told her that during the war he had performed acts of great valour in the jungle in Burma, and was the recipient of prestigious honours and awards. Her father told her that her grandfather could polish off a three-kilo leg of lamb all by himself, and knock back a whole bottle of whisky without getting drunk, and that he always wore black boots you could hear all over the house, and that all the servants — and there were close to forty of them — were terrified of him, and that in his entire life he had never shed a tear.