Waiting for the Monsoon (58 page)

HE REGRETTED NOT
taking along a big bottle of water. Cycling downhill was pleasant, with his shirt and his hair flapping, thanks to the speed of his descent. He zipped past the rows of buckets and cups, past the rusty sign at the bottom of the lane, unaware that it was a right-of-way sign, and crossed the road without looking right or left. The driver who was coming around the bend with his load of watermelons cursed him, but Madan was too far away to hear him.

He no longer understood himself. From the moment she had opened the door for him, her eyes half closed against the piercing sunlight, he had been lost. It was not only her beauty. There was more, once he had smelled her scent, heard her voice, looked at her. He had to pedal faster now, since the hill had become a stretch of flat road leading into town. Everywhere he looked, the houses and huts were encircled by bowls and basins. The droplets everyone was waiting for appeared on his forehead and his breath came faster. He would collect his money and leave town. He had to leave before the monsoon broke loose and the roads became impassable. Although he had been swept along on a wave of passion that was stronger, more intense, than anything he could remember, he must not want the impossible. It was not for him. He must forget her. Just as he had forgotten everything that lay in his past.

THE SHUTTERS ARE
closed, and the maharaja and the maharani are sitting side by side, in silence. Their youthful, aristocratic features have been washed away by rivers of sorrow. They seldom talk anymore. And when they do, almost every sentence begins the same way: “What if . . . ?” The corridors of the palace are empty, and when a servant passes by, his head is deeply bowed and he makes no noise. Heavy black cloths hang over the paintings in the large hall and the fountains are dry. The birds that used to flock around the veranda of the
zenana
have disappeared. Like the women, who have retreated to their individual rooms or even left, in an effort to escape the atmosphere of perpetual mourning. The bed in which Madan slept until his disappearance has been moved to the maharani's room and, although it is much too small for her, she sleeps in it every night. The doctor has warned her that her bones will grow crooked if she continues to do so, but she is not interested in what the doctor has to say. In fact, she doesn't want to hear the word “doctor” ever again. Her daughter Chutki has been banished to a village in Rajasthan, on the edge of the Great Indian Desert. The two nurses, who had been in the service of the royal family for years, were thrown into prison without any form of trial. No doubt they will remain there, since everyone has forgotten them. Just as they have forgotten the chauffeur, who was so overcome by remorse that he refused to eat and died two months later.

The hand of the maharaja steals slowly toward his wife's black-gloved hand, which freezes under his touch. He must talk to her. Reports are coming in from the territories that the people are becoming rebellious. They say that the strict state of mourning that has been enforced for two years must come to an end, that it's time to start digging the canal. The women long to wear colourful clothes again, and the men have had enough of the ban on shaving and of the decree ordaining that every newborn boy must be named Madan.

“Mother of my children . . . ,” he begins.

His wife moans. Her servant rushes to her side and starts to kneel down next to her, but the stern look in the eyes of the maharaja dissuades her.

“The time has come.”

She begins to sob heart-rendingly. Her shoulders shake and she buries her face in her hands. The servant pulls out a lace handkerchief and hands it to the maharaja.

Clumsily, he presses it into the hand of his wife, who immediately brings it to her face. “On the first of the month I will proclaim the end of the mourning period,” he says.

She winces and shakes her head. “We must find him. You know that. I put a curse on him,” she sobs bitterly.

The maharaja conceals his sigh. He's had enough of his wife's superstitions. “Lift the curse,” he says, unable to hide the exasperation in his voice.

“Lift it? A curse cannot be lifted.” Now it is the maharani who sighs.

“Then change it. Say that if she dies, he will find happiness.” The maharaja abhors the penchant for sorcery that his wife and his daughters display. He wants to shave off his beard, finish digging his canal, drink port, and go hunting again.

His wife closes her eyes devoutly and begins to hum a song he's never heard before. A high, shrill song. Then she presses her gloved hands to her heart and gazes at the only painting in the room that has not been covered. The painting is of Madan with a sabre that is almost as tall as he is. She calls out words that he has never heard, pulls off her gloves, and throws them at the wall. They fall behind the painting. She looks at her husband and says, “Open the shutters.”

AT THE INSISTENCE
of her aunt, Issy tried on the red dress. She had no idea why Charlotte was crying. There weren't that many parties in Rampur, and Grandfather had been singing cheerfully all day. Even the butler was in high spirits, after his accident with the teapot and the discovery that the tailor was gone. Issy herself was not in a good mood. She had hoped that the tailor would make a dress for her, preferably very short with a bare back. But she had to admit that her aunt's dress was quite lovely, considering it was designed for an older woman. She pulled it on over her head.

“You can keep it on. I don't want it anymore,” her aunt said as she walked out of the room.

As soon as Issy zipped up the dress and felt it close around her body, she found it difficult to breathe. The fabric seemed to become tighter with every breath she took. She wanted to take off the dress as fast as she could, but no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to unzip it.

Hema, who had just arrived with the tea, gazed at the girl in admiration as she danced around.

“Help me!” she gasped. “Undo the zipper!”

Hema was shocked at such an impertinent request from a white girl. Surely she didn't mean for him to undo the zipper and run the risk of accidently touching her skin?

“Help me!” she shrieked.

Charlotte, who was in the hall, came running when she heard her niece's voice. She found her standing in the middle of the room, gasping for breath. She ran over to her and unzipped the dress.

Before Hema could beat a retreat, the girl had pulled off the dress and stood there in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but her panties.

“What a fucking dress!” she cried, kicking it away from her.

“Isabella!” Charlotte looked around for something to cover the girl with.

Hema shot out the door and, for the second time that day, the hot tea splashed over his hands. But this time he felt no pain, absorbed as he was in the spectacle of those firm young breasts.

Charlotte reached for the girl's T-shirt and held it in front of her as the door closed.

“Hema is a man!” she said.

“And I'm a woman!”

Charlotte picked up the dress and immediately found herself caressing the fabric.

“That dress is bewitched!” said Issy.

“Nonsense,” she said dreamily. “It's just an ordinary dress.”

“Then you put it on.”

“No, I'm not going to the gala.”

“I'm not talking about the gala. I'm talking about the dress.”

Charlotte felt the soft folds of the silk glide through her fingers. It was just as she had imagined his skin would feel. Still holding it in her hand, she unbuttoned her worn housedress and slipped the garment on over her head. Charlotte slid into the dress like a snake crawls out of its skin. She put one arm through the armhole and glided into a space that was already familiar to her, while her other arm easily found its way. The crimson material flowed past her breasts, her belly, her back, and her hips. She couldn't tell whether it was her skin that drew the fabric to it or the silk that embraced her. It was not a second skin, but something much more intimate: it gave her the same strength as the bark of a tree, the same protection as the cocoon surrounding a larva, the same safety as the arms of a mother or the membrane surrounding the most delicious fruit. . . . She felt years younger, stronger, prettier, fuller, richer. The yearning in her heart was gone and the tears she had shed were forgotten. She knew that he loved her.

Upstairs the clock struck eight.

“Go to the gala . . . ,” said Issy, who had noticed the transformation in her aunt. “I'm not in the mood.”

But her aunt hadn't even heard her — Charlotte slipped on a pair of evening shoes and walked out the door without uttering a word.

Hema caught sight of his employer leaving the house in her beautiful dress. She seemed to be floating rather than walking. He wanted to call out to her to wait, that he would call a taxi for her, but she danced off in the direction of the road. He overtook her, manoeuvring around the buckets and pans lining the driveway. At the gate, he jumped into the street, waving with all his might in order to attract a taxi, but they were all occupied by elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen on their way to the gala.

He heard a car horn, then a door flung open, and Mr. Nikhil Nair stepped out of his gleaming limousine.

“Mrs. Bridgwater . . .” It was several seconds before he found the right words. “May I have the honour?” He bowed deeply and held the car door open for her. Charlotte seated herself next to his wife, who was quite radiant in her new pink dress.

Before Hema had a chance to wish her a pleasant evening, the car drove off in the direction of the city, where all the streets were lined with bowls, basins, tubs, and anything else that was capable of holding water, leaving only a narrow corridor for traffic.

NOW THAT EVERYONE
was gone, it was boring in the big house. Quieter and emptier than during the day. Even the butler failed to appear when she rang. After the car drove away, Hema went off to the neighbours' butler, to tell him about the breasts he'd seen. So Issy poured herself another cup of tea and tried for the umpteenth time to find the right cable to charge her mobile phone. That afternoon she'd found a pile of old cables and extension cords that everyone had apparently forgotten about. Maybe there was something there she could use.

She dropped the tangle of wires on the floor and pulled out one with dismantled scraps of copper at both ends. With a piece of sticking plaster she fastened one end of the wire to the rods of the plug that she would normally insert into the wall outlet. With great care — since she knew that electricity was dangerous — she put the two ends into the outlet. The tiny screen on her mobile phone lit up, and the symbol for “battery is charging” began to flicker. With a sense of accomplishment, she looked at her phone and said, “You see? I told you I'm perfectly capable of travelling on my own.” She fell backwards onto the couch.

There was a loud bang. The bulb over her head flickered and then the power went out.

~~~

THE ORCHESTRA WAS
playing a waltz. The large covered terrace had been cleared for dancing. There were torches at regular intervals around the perimeter, silver streamers that reflected the light hung from the ceiling. Ladies who were usually shy and preferred to sit in a corner now whirled around the dance floor. Those who'd always been considered fat were more slender than they had ever been. Those who had always been as thin as a rail had developed magnificent bosoms, while the most colourless individuals radiated a veritable joie de vivre. And for the occasion, the loudmouths who were universally disliked had a kind of poetic bonhomie about them. There was even a bewitching quality about the unbearable heat that held the entire city in its grip and intensified by the minute.

But the most beautiful of all was Charlotte, who whirled across the dance floor like an incandescent flower surrounded by buzzing bees. She laughed and danced with Mr. Karapiet, who kept telling her that he had never before seen so many beautiful women together in one place; she danced with Alok Nath, the goldsmith, who wanted to design a necklace for her because he found her beauty overwhelming. She danced with Adeeb Tata, a distant cousin of the wealthy Ratan Tata, who whispered in her ear that she was lovelier than any of the women he had met in Paris. She danced with the manufacturer of coconut oil, who said that he was intoxicated by her perfume, although she was not wearing any. And of course she danced with Mr. Nikhil Nair, who could not take his eyes off her, and even asked her for a second dance. She respectfully declined in order to avoid any possible discord with his wife. Charlotte was conscious of the fact that she was radiant, that all the festivities she had missed in the past were nothing compared with this one. The waiters went around with enticing delicacies on Wedgwood plates, some of which she recognized. But even that did not cause her pain. Just as the covetous glances in her direction did not embarrass her but made her feel happy.