Waiting for the Monsoon (53 page)

“Hand,” says the little Jap. “Eat hand.”

Peter sees the terror in the men's eyes. Is he supposed to eat their hands? He looks at the trembling, emaciated hands, hanging helplessly at their sides. They all still have their hands.

The Jap slams his swagger stick hard against his other hand. He raises his arm. For an instant Peter expects to see a stump, but his hand is still connected to his arm.

“Eat! Or man dead.”

The Jap gives his men a sign. There are clicks, a sound Peter is all too familiar with.

“EAT! Now!”

Peter stares at his hand. As a throat surgeon he doesn't know much about hands, except that a hand consists largely of bones and tendons, not flesh. You couldn't eat a hand, not even if you wanted to.

A shot sounds. Alex, the young soldier first class with the stories about long-legged beauties, lies motionless on the ground. Peter sees that there is blood coming out of his ear. Two pairs of terror-stricken eyes plead with him. He wants to shout that he can't eat his hand, that he wishes he could but that he can't, that it's impossible, that even if they chopped his hand off, he couldn't eat it. Another shot sounds. Marcus, the lieutenant who knew dozens of Jap jokes and recounted them with relish, falls down dead.

The older soldier looks in panic as the man next to him slumps to the ground, and screams: “EAT!”

Peter lifts up his hand. He looks at it as if he's seeing it for the first time. Everything is quiet. Even the jungle forgets to make a sound. A smile appears on the Jap's face. Then, with his right hand, Peter brings his left hand to his mouth. He doesn't know where to start, how to start . . . he's never even bitten his nails. His fingers glide one by one through his mouth, searching for the weakest spot. He stops when he gets to the little finger. He bites into his own flesh. It is not his hand. It isn't even a hand. It's a chicken drumstick, the way his mother used to make them, pan-fried and with a nice brown skin. He can smell it. He can taste it. His mouth waters. He hears his mother ask if he wants another one, because it's his favourite dish. The bone is thicker than he's used to. He transfers it to his back teeth. The smell of the chicken is intoxicating. His jaws tense. He feels that he has to exert more pressure. His father laughs and tells his mother that she shouldn't spoil the boy. He hears the bone break. The juices run into his mouth. This is the most delicious drumstick he's ever tasted. He brings it to his mouth and tears off the skin with his teeth. His father begins to laugh hysterically. He falls forward and the voices cease.

CHARLOTTE HANGS THE
green silk evening dress that the maharaja's tailor made for her in the closet, alongside Peter's gala uniform. She felt quite proud when she walked into the huge marble hall on Peter's arm. Above her head the colossal chandeliers dispersed their twinkling light. Along the walls, beneath the paintings of the forefathers of the maharaja, stood the servants in their gold-coloured uniforms, bowing their heads low as they passed. Charlotte felt like a princess, and she had no idea why the wife of the maharaja made such a fuss because she was the first to see the newborn son. Peter had told her not to worry about it, since the maharaja had confided to him in private that it was the fault of his daughter Chutki, who should never have left Charlotte alone. But she finds it difficult to banish the shrieks of the nurse who held the newborn in her arms. The furious sobs of the mother who damned her son because she, a British subject, had seen him first. Nor does she understand why the servant she had taken on earlier that week refused to wash her clothes together with those of Peter, and always placed their shoes so that the toes were facing north.

“Those are the secrets of India,” Peter says.

“No, it's superstition,” Charlotte retorts.

“It's one of the things that make living in India so special,” he says. “Nothing is what it seems, everything turns out differently than you expected.” He walks over to where she's standing and takes her hand. His forefinger strokes her ring finger. “If my afternoon at the hospital goes the way I hope, then I'll be home early and we can finally buy our rings.” He embraces her in an effort to banish her worries.

“You'd better go.” Charlotte pushes him away. “Otherwise you'll be late and I'll never get my ring.”

SHE CASTS A
worried look at her watch. Peter should have been home by now. Perhaps an emergency has come in? Or the operation has lasted longer than expected? The newspaper is lying next to the chair, but she hopes he won't try to read it before they leave for the jeweller's. Her hand feels bare without a wedding ring, and the ladies at the club look askance at her ringless finger. Even among the servants she senses a certain disapproval. She reaches for the newspaper and impatiently swings her foot up and down. An article in bold letters on the front page catches her eye:

WAR HERO HONOURED

Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bridgwater was this morning awarded the Distinguished Service Order, one of the highest military honours, reserved for soldiers who have displayed exceptional courage in defence of the British Empire during encounters with the enemy. Lieutenant Colonel Bridgwater received the award for his uncommonly brave opposition to the Japanese in the Burmese jungle.

Her father a war hero? What does she actually know about him? She has no idea what he did during the war, where he was stationed, or who his enemies and friends were.

Peter comes into the room, smiling. He kisses her and apologizes for being late.

Charlotte proudly presents him with the newspaper. “Look! My father is a hero.”

Peter starts to read. She sees how he stiffens, how the smile disappears and a grey pallor comes over his face.

“What's wrong?”

He shakes his head. He tries to smile, but the grimace that appears on his face is bitter and hard.

“It's in the newspaper . . . ,” she says with a questioning look.

The soft gleam in his eyes fades. His lips tighten.

“Then it must be true, mustn't it?”

He nods.

THEY'RE SITTING OPPOSITE
each other at the table. Her plate is empty. His plate is untouched. She looks at his hands, on either side of his plate. They're twitching slightly. The absence of his little finger is something she has hardly noticed — until now. The wound is redder and swollen. It is as if something has taken possession of him. Something she has no knowledge of. She must write to her father, ask him what on earth happened during his time in Burma. Otherwise, she realizes, she'll never wear a wedding ring.

“
I'M LOOKING FOR
something small, more like this house.” Charlotte stood in the middle of Sita's living room and looked around. Never before had she examined the house, which she knew so well, in such detail. The moment her father signed his name on the document, it was as if everything had changed. The barren trees were less barren, the heat was less intense, she had a biscuit with her tea, and even her lovesickness seemed less impossible. “Maybe I'll leave Rampur.”

“Where would you go?” Sita was slicing a tomato, and the dal bubbled behind her, filling the house with a delectable smell.

“I don't know. Maybe a place where the sun doesn't always shine.”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

“I have to get back. Donald's daughter is visiting.”

“Yes, so I've heard. Everyone's talking about her. I thought: another guest for dinner. You won't forget to eat?”

Charlotte hugged the tiny woman whom she considered her mother, friend, and sister all at once.

“Mama?” called a cheerful male voice.

The two women stared at each other as if they'd both been stung by a wasp. The intimate atmosphere between them vanished. They both spun around with a jerk and looked at the door. Parvat came in, wearing his light-brown uniform with the gleaming metal buttons, kicked off his boots, but forgot to remove his yellow helmet.

“Aunt Charlotte!” he said in surprise.

He knelt down in front of her and respectfully touched her feet. Then he hugged Sita. Charlotte would rather have had a bear hug, too — his big body pressed against hers, so she could let him know how much she loved him. He opened the fridge in search of something to snack on, but his mother was already preparing a plate for him.

“You'll have to wait a bit for the
paneer
.”

“Are you staying for dinner, Aunt Charlotte?”

“No, I should be going. My niece is here.”

“Yes, so I've heard. The guys at the station think that the wind started to turn when she got here. They say it's going to rain.”

“Wouldn't that be marvellous!”

“They say she brings luck.”

Could Issy really bring luck? Charlotte wondered as she climbed the hill leading back to the big house. It was true that her father had finally signed the power of attorney document, and that Hema went around whistling despite the suffocating heat, and that she felt younger than she had in years. Even the apple tree seemed to anticipate the arrival of the monsoon. She walked past the
mali
's shed and turned the corner. At the bottom of the steps she saw a long line of parked cars, including the
1957
Ambassador belonging to widow Singh. The front door was wide open. Even from a distance she could hear the wrangling. She ran up the broad stone stairs two steps at a time, noticing the chips and cracks.

In the hall, halfway up the stairs, stood the wife of Nikhil Nair in a bright pink sari, visibly agitated and dripping with perspiration. From her elevated position she spoke to the women, gesturing in the direction of the closed door to the music room. Everyone nodded, and there was a forbidding mumble of agreement. In the hall Hema looked around in a panic, uncertain what to do with the tray filled with glasses of water. He finally picked up a glass and emptied it in one gulp.

“It's just like a real strike, isn't it?” said a voice coming from the drawing room.

Charlotte looked into the room. On the floor, next to the socket, sat Issy, surrounded by a pile of plugs and leads. She grinned at her aunt.

“Let's break open the door!” cried the wife of Nikhil Nair, waving her hands in the air.

“Has he run off?” squeaked the portly wife of the manufacturer of coconut oil.

“He's barricaded the door!” blared widow Singh, who was not asleep for once.

“We don't have to take this lying down!” screeched the wife of Adeeb Tata, who despite her expensive Parisian dress had also delivered a length of silk to the interesting tailor everyone was so taken with.

“My gold brocade dress . . . ,” wailed the wife of Ajay Karapiet, who for several nights had dreamt of tripping the light fantastic in her black pumps.

Even the wife of Alok Nath raised her voice, although her contribution was drowned out by the desperate cries of the others.

Charlotte went to the door of the music room and pushed down on the handle, but the door did not open. She knew for certain that she had not given him the key. It was still on her own key ring, and since the last of the rubies on the lampshade had been sold, it was no longer necessary to lock the door.

Where are you?
she called in her thoughts, but the ladies were making so much noise that she couldn't hear a thing.

The wife of Nikhil Nair beckoned her. Charlotte had no intention of obeying the summons, and remained near the door of the music room. She called:
Can you hear me? What's going on? Answer me!

“We want the key!” shouted the wife of Nikhil Nair.

Charlotte strained to hear if an answer was forthcoming, and failed to see the furious looks launched in her direction by the portly pink woman descending the stairs. Taking steps that were far too big for her sari, the wife of the district director of the Eastern Indian Mining Company headed straight for her target. Her forehead was wet and circles of perspiration were forming under her arms. The ladies of the Tuesday-morning club made way for her.

Wheezing from the exertion, she stood before Charlotte and held up her hand. “Do you have the key?” she demanded.

“Of course I have the key,” said Charlotte amiably. “This is my house and I have keys to all the rooms.”

“Then open this door!”

“No, I don't intend to open the door. I've rented out this room.”

“To a swindler!” she shouted back.

“Yes, to a swindler!” echoed someone from the back of the group.

“To the tailor who for weeks has been working day and night for all of you.”

“The ball is tomorrow! We want our clothes!”

“And we want them NOW!”

“I still have to pick out my shoes.”

“I don't know which necklace goes with my dress.”

“I can't buy my earrings yet.”

“I want to choose a new colour of lipstick.”

“At the fitting my collar wasn't quite right.”

“I can't remember the colour of my dress.”

HE WAS ALMOST
finished. The crushed mimosa leaves had been sewn into the hem of the dress destined for the wife of Nikhil Nair. The flowers of the teak tree had only been found early that morning and ironed into the shoulder pads of the blouse he'd made for the secretary's wife. He'd cut the leaves of the cinnamon tree into thin strips and sewn them into the seams of the gown he made for the painfully shy woman. The mixture of dried forget-me-nots and marigolds was destined for the dress of the woman who'd lost a son, while the bust of the wife of the coconut oil manufacturer was sprinkled with ground petunia seeds. All he had to do now was to sew the stamens of the wild orchid into the neck of the dress he'd made for the wife of Ajay Karapiet. He heard the pounding on the door. He tried not to listen to the chaos in the hall, since a mistake could have disastrous consequences for the wearer. He had shoved the cabinet in front of the door when he heard the women storming up the staircase. He was surprised when the manoeuvre proved successful. There were so many cobwebs behind the cabinet that it looked as if hadn't been moved in the last hundred years. In the hall outside, the shouting grew louder, and the cabinet shook from the blows that rained down on the other side of the door. Now and then he heard Charlotte's faint voice. He had to finish the very last seam. Like all the others, it was executed lovingly and with great precision.